


Coffee and Faerie Cakes

by Sunfreckle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (once again by my sister praise be onto her loveliness), ? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Betaed, Developing Relationship, Don't mess with them, Faerie rules, Faerie!Jehan, Fairy Tale Elements, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Montparnasse is a Foolish Mortal, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, Romance, Sassy too, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Enjolras, Trans Montparnasse, does this count as a, the Fair Folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: Nowadays hardly anyone notices if you're of faerie descent and Jehan has no trouble whatsoever running a nice little café in Paris...until a mortal called Parnasse struts in.





	1. In which a deal is broken

**Author's Note:**

> On the whole, faerie heritage was quite easy to hide. Nowadays most people tried to pretend they had died out anyway. Nobody could deny they had existed _once_ , but that didn’t stop people from saying that they didn’t exist _anymore_. That was advantageous. It’s much easier to hide in plain sight if the people looking don’t really _want_ to see you.

Jehan knows the average customer would rather not believe in Fae and they take full advantage of that. Their little café is as popular as it is tiny and most of the regulars have no idea that it’s the magic in the food and drink that keeps them coming back. Not that Jehan actually _makes_ them come back. They don’t lay spells on people, they pride themselves in that. All they use is a little glamour…and a little glamour goes a long way. Some of the customers do actually taste the burst of happiness Jehan bakes into their pastries, but that doesn’t mean that they can tell the difference between faerie magic and the other glimpses of power that some people are still born with. Which is good, because when they _do_ believe in it, faerie magic freaks people out. Jehan doesn’t resent this, but it does make them smile sometimes. The days of faerie rings are long gone and they don’t live in a grassy mound with a hawthorn growing on its top. They live in a little apartment above their café. They like the city and they _love_ their shop.

Because faeries make deals, that’s what they’re all about, and Jehan makes a deal with every customer that walks through their door. They give them the shimmer of the silver and gold that they earned and they give them the food and drink they crafted with their own hands. (Jehan’s café is the last cash-only place left on the block. It’s the shimmer that counts as well as the value you see, and even paper money has a glitter to it.) This is the deal and Jehan honours it, for a faerie is never in debt. They smile at every customer and everyone smiles back, because far away in their mortal subconscious, they know they ought to. It’s wonderful. Jehan loves this life among the mortals. Loves to be surrounded by the bustle of the city. Loves to see the same happy faces coming back to their counter week after week.

They have favourites of course. The three young men that come in with laptops, books and pamphlets every Friday for instance. And the two girls that treat each other to scones most Wednesdays. They are here again today. Jehan is watching them laugh and talk together. He used to nickname them the Laughing Blonde and the Smiling Brunette, but today the blonde locks are a gorgeous bubble-gum pink. Jehan is still admiring it when the shop bell rings and a small crowd of semi-regulars comes in. Jehan turns back to the counter, smile at the ready, when they stop breathing for a second. Coming in behind the group of chattering women is the prettiest mortal Jehan has ever seen. For a moment they doubt whether he really is mortal, so graceful are his movements. The young man is tall, clad all in black, and has such a striking combination of fair skin and dark features that it makes Jehan’s heart ache. He moves with ease and confidence and the faint smirk around his lips looks as if it never leaves him.

“Parnasse!” the Smiling Brunette suddenly calls out.

The smirk turns into a grin as the young man joins her table, nodding at the pink-haired girl and suddenly Jehan _understands_. For the first time in their life they know why their ancestors played their flutes in the dark woods just at the edge of hearing and wove spells in the moonlight. _Because of mortals like this_.

It takes all their willpower to serve their customers with a tolerable appearance of care and attention, because the young man named Parnasse has risen from his seat and is joining the queue. They try to keep their eyes on the hot chocolates they’re making, but the tall, dark shape is still at the edge of their vision.

The three women are still counting out their money when Parnasse steps past them and leans on the counter.

“Double espresso please,” he says.

“Nothing else?” Jehan asks, their eyes firmly fixed on him now that they finally have an excuse. His eyes are green. So green…

Parnasse glances over the various piles of freshly baked goods displayed both on the counter and behind the glass and shakes his head. “No thanks.”

Jehan would be offended, but that grin…

“I’ll get you your coffee then,” they say, turning away. When they turn back Parnasse is leaning against the counter nonchalantly while the women laughingly hand over a handful of coins.

“We always forget to hit the ATM before we come here.”

“It’s really Zeph’s fault this time,” one of them says conversationally, but Jehan isn’t listening.

They move to a table by the window, waving at the pink-haired girl in passing.

“Here’s your espresso,” Jehan says, turning back to Parnasse.

He takes his hands out of the pockets of their leather jacket. It looks expensive. Very expensive. “Thanks.”

Jehan watches him take the cup and walk back to his friends. They barely manage to swallow a sigh. No spells. They promised themselves they’d _never_ …

Soberly they return to cleaning the coffee machine. Every now and again their eyes inevitably drift in the direction of the table where Parnasse sits with the two girls. They seem to be having a good time, only Parnasse is sitting with his back to him, so he can’t really tell. After a while the two girls get up.

“You coming?”

Jehan lets out a breath. He’s leaving, but at least they’ll get to see his face again as he turns.

To their surprise, however, Parnasse hesitates and then shakes his head. “You go ahead.”

Jehan feels a flutter in their stomach. He is staying? Alone?

“Okay,” the brunette shrugs. “See you!” And she leaves with her pink-haired companion.

Parnasse seems to shift in his seat uncomfortably, but then he chooses a new spot in the corner and picks up one of the magazines scattered around the tables. Jehan considers going up to him to ask if he wants something else to drink, but they decide against it.

Customers come and go, the chatty trio of women leaves, and still Parnasse remains. Sometimes he gets up and walks through the café as if he’s about to leave…and then doesn’t. Jehan is watching him more often than not now, but Parnasse never looks in his direction.

“Enjoy your muffins!” Jehan smiles at an old man with friendly eyes that comes in once a week just to buy some pastries to take home. They’re pretty sure he lives with his sister, or maybe two sisters.

“We always do,” the man replies happily and he gently closes the door behind him, leaving the café empty for the first time that day.

Well, empty apart from Parnasse, who is still sitting in the corner. Jehan makes a decision and speaks up:

“Hey, can I get you anything? I do sandwiches too…”

Parnasse’s head snaps up from the magazine he clearly hasn’t actually been reading, because he hasn’t progressed at all. He glances around, quickly, tensely, and then gets to his feet. “No,” he says, voice oddly strained. “You can’t get me anything. You can do something for me.”

Jehan raises their eyebrows. They’re not sure they like that tone of voice. “And what might that be?” they say, crossing their arms.

Parnasse walks up to the counter with long, almost threatening strides. “ _Let me leave_ ,” they say roughly.

Jehan blinks in surprise. “Let you-”

“I can’t leave,” Parnasse snaps. “You did something to me. I can feel it.”

A spark of panic ignites in Jehan’s chest and they hurriedly feel around for their own magic. They hadn’t- They _couldn’t_ have. Weaving a spell took effort and concentration, they couldn’t have done it unconsciously.

“You can look sweet all you want, I’ve been to the hidden places in Paris,” Parnasse growls, leaning towards Jehan across the counter. “I know magic when I feel it.”

Jehan lifts their eyes to his and something clicks. “Then you should have known better,” they say emphatically, “than to steal from a faerie.”

Parnasse’s eyes widen and Jehan feels their cheeks burn. They shouldn’t have said that, it’s an utterly stupid thing to do. But this guy has no right to come in here with his too green eyes and his too perfect smirk and accuse _them_ of spellbinding while _he_ stole from _them_.

“I…” Parnasse begins and then he draws back and runs a hand through his hair.

Jehan can tell that he’s shocked, but he is not as shocked as he could have been. Obviously the existence of faeries is not a surprise to him, just that he happens to be stuck with one at the moment.

Parnasse grimaces. “I took a damn muffin,” he says finally.

“Freshly baked lemon-curd muffin,” Jehan corrects smugly. “And it doesn’t matter what you stole. You stole from me. You broke the deal.”

“What deal?” Parnasse groans.

“You took coffee and a muffin,” Jehan says accusingly. “You only _paid_ for coffee.” They smile at Parnasse and they use their actual faerie smile for once. “You have a _debt_.”

One corner of Parnasse’s mouth twitches and Jehan can’t help but notice that he is neither actually angry nor really afraid. If anything he look slightly amused now. “Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll pay. How much are they?”

Jehan scoffs amusedly and shakes their head. “It doesn’t work like that. A contract broken can’t be mended that easily.”

“So I’ll pay you more,” Parnasse says, spreading his hands against the counter. He smirks. “Or are you just trying to keep me here, fae?”

“You can call me Jehan,” Jehan says pointedly. “And don’t blame me for your thieving fingers.”

The smirk wavers a little. “Look,” Parnasse sighs. “I’m sorry, alright? Force of habit…” He gives Jehan a slightly gentler look. “How can I repay the debt?”

It’s not much of an apology, but Jehan is willing to take it. That doesn’t mean they need to be entirely helpful however. “We’d have to make a new deal,” they say airily. “You give me something in return for you freedom…”

“My _freedom_ ,” Parnasse scoffs, but the shine in Jehan’s eyes is dead serious.

“That’s what’s at stake here, isn’t it?” they say and they flash Parnasse another smile. “And I don’t have to let you go… Maybe I could use some help in the kitchen.”

Now there actually is a shimmer of nervousness on Parnasse’s face, but it’s immediately buried under a sneering smile. “You can make me stay, but you can’t make me _work_ ,” he says.

“True,” Jehan hums. “And you’d probably be rubbish at it anyway.”

Parnasse opens his mouth in an offended manner, but Jehan interrupts him.

“So what are you willing to give in exchange for your freedom?” they ask teasingly. “Are you a traditionalist? There’s always first born children…or the ability to speak…”

Parnasse doesn’t answer that, but he is neither sneering nor smirking anymore.

“Or…” Jehan hums, really enjoying themselves now. “Something smaller, like the colour of your eyes, or the darkest shade of black from your shadow…”

“You’re not serious, right?” Parnasse asks, staring at Jehan uncomfortably.

They laugh and that sound alone is enough to dispel the tension in the air. “Of course I’m not!” they say, in a kinder tone of voice. “But I don’t hear _you_ making any offers.”

“It’s not like I know what would be a proper price,” he grumbles, looking away.

“And I thought you knew so much about magic,” Jehan teases. “There’s all sorts of things you could give me. An object you made with your own hands, a secret you’ve never told anyone.” They wave their hands about, trying to think of something else. “It could be anything, as long as it’s worth something,” they say. “A word you’ve never spoken before, a tear shed for joy.” They laugh again, because they haven’t felt this Fae in a long time and add playfully: “A kiss…”

The green eyes spark. “Really?” Parnasse grins. “Why didn’t you start with that?” And before Jehan can even say a word in reply, he curls his slender fingers around the front of Jehan’s apron and, leaning across the counter, presses his lips to theirs.

Jehan’s eyes open wide in shock as Parnasse’s close for a moment. Then he opens them again and pulls away.

“There,” he grins.

Jehan gapes at him. “You know you’re _never_ supposed to do that right?” they blurt out. “If ‘never make a deal you can’t keep’ is rule number one, ‘never kiss a faerie’ is _definitely_ rule number two.” Their heart is racing and the twinkling lights in Parnasse’s eyes aren’t helping. “I could have stolen your _soul_ ,” they breathe, mildly horrified.

“You wouldn’t,” Parnasse grins. “You’re not a thief.” He chuckles. “I’d know it if you were.”

Jehan shakes their head and straightens their apron.

“So,” Parnasse smirks, leaning comfortably on the counter. “Is my debt repaid?”

“Yes,” Jehan says, trying to will the blush out of their cheeks. “You’re free to leave.”

“And free to come back, right?” Parnasse says, smiling slowly. “Because I think I’d rather like to come back…”

Jehan folds their arms again and gives them an appraising look. “Do whatever you like,” they say. “Just try not to steal anything next time.”

“Oh I don’t know…” Parnasse muses. “If this is the only penalty…”

“A faerie never exchanges the same thing twice,” Jehan warns him.

“Pity,” Parnasse sighs. “I’ll keep my hands to myself from now on then.” He turns around and strolls to the exit, as calmly as if he’s not even slightly anxious whether he’ll actually be able to leave. “Au revoir,” he chuckles softly.

“Bonsoir, Parnasse,” Jehan replies and all their mixed feelings of flustered indignation and reluctant admiration are clearly audible in their voice.

“Actually,” Parnasse grins, turning back in the doorway. “It’s Montparnasse.” He winks and lets the door slam shut behind him.

Jehan stares at his retreating form through the glass pane. Slowly, a smile starts spreading across their freckled face.

Rule number three: _never_ give a faerie your full name…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit's due: [Wistfullwishing](https://wistfullwishing.tumblr.com/post/161833893853/spacebuck-megsamforever-kerryrenaissance) came up with the premise for this on Tumblr. :)
> 
> My hands are itching to make this into a full AU story, but I _really_ need to finish my non magical jehanparnasse story first. And my Northanger Abbey rewrite...and my- *sigh*
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	2. In which a name is burnt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I said I wasn't going to do this but here we are.
> 
> Shout-outs of inspiration to enjolras-would-bang-that (for their tumblr post), just-french-me-up (for Growth and Decay) and persephonah (for their aesthetic/edit), but this story is hereby officially dedicated to devilish dandy montparnassee (Adrian) who gave me the midnight inspiration to actually write this.

_Montparnasse. Montparnasse. Montparnasse._

The name seems to reverberate through their body with every dancing step they take as they run up the stairs to their apartment above the café. Their faerie blood is boiling within them. The most _beautiful_ of mortals. The _greenest_ eyes. A name _freely_ given. They touch their lips and smile. A kiss…

The air stirs when they breeze in through the door and the many plants scattered throughout the room seem to grow a little greener.

Jehan feels giddy. They haven’t felt like this in all their twenty-one summers. “Steal from a faerie!” they laugh, their voice ringing out with sudden loudness. “Mind you don’t get stolen yourself!”

Their smile vanishes like smoke in the wind and their hand clasps over their mouth in shock. They did _not_ just say that… Dread settles into their stomach and drags their elated excitement down with it. Slowly Jehan lowers their hand and takes a steadying breath. It’s fine…they just got a little carried away, that’s all.

Nervously they bite their lip and try not to think of elegant smirks and green eyes, but instead of what this _means_. They were discovered. They might be outed. Montparnasse knows two of his regulars. At the very least he might tell them. Jehan feels unbalanced. They don’t know what to do. So they do what they usually do in that situation. They pull their phone out of their pocket and select the only contact in their favourites. Magic is all well and good, but modern communication is much less invasive and usually faster.

After the third ring a slightly distracted voice answers: “Yeah?”

“Feuilly, I messed up.”

Jehan can feel the shift in attention on the other end of the line. “What happened?” Feuilly asks, concerned.

“I’ve been discovered,” Jehan says. They sound appropriately worried, but there is a thrill deep inside their treacherous chest, because Feuilly is about to ask by whom and-

“By whom?” Feuilly asks sharply.

“By a mortal,” Jehan whispers. The _prettiest_ mortal. “A customer…”

“Well,” Feuilly sighs. “It was only a matter of time I guess. How did it happen?”

Jehan tries to tell the story in neutral terms. Simple terms. A young man stole a muffin and knew enough about magic to sense why he could no longer leave. That’s all. Nothing else.

“So you made a trade to let him go?” Feuilly asks.

“Yes,” Jehan replies and they silently beg that Feuilly won’t ask what they traded.

“You must have given them a scare,” Feuilly ponders. “But maybe there’s no harm done. Let’s hope he doesn’t come back.”

That’s a sensible wish, but Jehan really can’t share it. Instead of saying ‘but I want him to come back’, they mutter: “Except he said he would…”

There’s a short silence on the other end of the line. “Jehan…” Feuilly begins slowly. “Did something else happen?”

Jehan can feel their cheeks burning. Feuilly’s ancestry consists of kind, helpful faeries, more used to concern themselves with humans than with the wild dancers in Jehan’s bloodline. Technically Jehan is more powerful and they both know it. But Feuilly is older. Much older. And wiser.

“He told me his name…” Jehan confesses. Maybe that will help him get away with not mentioning the kiss. Because in a way, this is even more shocking. Names are important. Names are something to be guarded. It is the one thing all people still actually do. Even those that believe in neither Fae nor sorcery. Even the people that teach their children to scoff at crows flying in threes and to be indifferent to standing between two mirrors. Yes, even sceptics that scorn everything still think twice before telling anyone their given name. It’s engrained into the culture. A remainder of the times when faeries still stole babies from their cradles before they were named and when sorcerers and sorceresses were so common that everyone knew at least once person carrying either a blessing or a curse. So maybe the fact that this strange thief willingly told a _faerie_ their name will shock Feuilly enough to prevent him from suspecting something else happened.

It certainly has a dramatic effect. “ _Green_ _earth_ , why?” Feuilly cries out.

“I don’t know!” Jehan squeaks. “He just did. I heard one of my customers use his nickname and when I called him that he corrected me!”

“You didn’t ask for his name?” Feuilly presses.

“ _No_ ,” Jehan says and at least that is true. They are completely innocent in that regard. They didn’t ask for anything. Montparnasse chose to steal. Montparnasse chose to kiss them. Montparnasse chose to give them his name. _Montparnasse. Montparnasse. Montparnasse._

“He gave it freely?” Feuilly says incredulously.

Jehan sits down on their bed and fumbles with the handwoven bedspread. “I don’t know why...” they mutter.

Feuilly sighs heavily. Jehan is certain he is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure he doesn’t have sorcery?” he asks urgently.

“I don’t think he even has magic,” Jehan muses. Montparnasse had said he knew magic when he felt it, that didn’t sound like someone that had magic actually flowing through their veins. Besides, Jehan would have felt it if that had been the case.

“That’s good,” Feuilly says. “But it’s no guarantee you’re safe.” There’s another tense pause. “Well,” Feuilly says grimly. “You’ve got his name. If need be you can make him forget.”

Jehan’s stomach churns. _Forget_. Make Montparnasse forget about him? About everything that happened? That’s-

“I know you don’t place spells on people,” Feuilly says kindly, misinterpreting their silence. “But you might not have a choice here.”

“Yeah…” Jehan mutters and in glancing idly round the room they accidentally catch their own reflection in the mirror on their closet door. Their mouth is almost contracted into a pout. They look like a petulant child. For some reason that realization only makes them feel more defiant. Why should they listen to Feuilly with his talk about forgetting and never coming back?

“If they really do come back,” Feuilly interrupts their thoughts. “You should at least find out if they mean harm.”

Jehan raises their head. “Yes,” they say, brightening up. “Yes, I could do that.” They have his name after all. Or _a_ name. ‘Montparnasse’ doesn’t sound like a first name. Besides, that would be too dangerous. Nobody would tell a stranger their given first name. Montparnasse had looked sly, not insane.

In human society first names were reserved for true intimates. Friends and allies knew each other’s last names, but in public they used nicknames. Those nicknames were what mortals generally knew each other by and Jehan quite likes this human practice. Faeries are different. Faeries have a given name, which they keep from the world and a chosen name, which they use. Jehan has been ‘Jehan’ since they first learned to speak and named themself. Just like Feuilly chose that name as his own. A chosen name and a nickname are very different things. The latter is made by other people for you, the former you give yourself. A chosen name is a stronger protection that a nickname. Not only because nicknames are often based on real names, but also because what you made for yourself is not as easy to turn against you as something that was always intended by for the use of other people. Still, the idea of nicknames like the mortals use them is endearing to Jehan. They often sound so cute. They like listening to the conversations of their regulars and of some of them that has taught them their nicknames by now. The three young men that come in to study together (at least Jehan thinks that’s what they are doing) call each other Ferre, Courf and Ange. Jehan knows this because they are often loud. He overheard them calling out to each other like the Smiling Brunette called out to Montparnasse. But if ‘Parnasse’ is his nickname, Montparnasse might very well be his given last name. And that is certainly enough for a reading.

“You be careful about it, though,” Feuilly says seriously. “If he knows about magic and faeries he might have someone with sorcery in his life. If you use something that leaves a trace, they might find out.”

“I will,” Jehan says. They feel better, lighter. The thought of being able to do something with the name that was bestowed on them makes a difference. They could find out who Montparnasse is. Something beyond the thieving fingers and the teasing grin… But no, they shouldn’t, they only need to know if he is dangerous. Nothing more.

“Are you going to be okay, Jehan?”

Jehan feels a little guilty. Feuilly is a good friend, the best friend he has. “Of course,” they say. “Thank you, Feuilly. I…thank you.”

“What are friends for,” he answers dismissively. “Promise to call again if anything happens? Preferably _before_ things go wrong.”

Jehan laughs. “Yes, Feuilly,” they say sweetly.

Their friend lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Alright then, I got to get back to work.”

“Send me a picture?” Jehan begs. Feuilly is an excellent leather worker and his bags are true works of art.

“When it’s finished,” Feuilly answers, a grin in their voice.

Jehan hums happily. “Okay, bye then!”

“Stay safe,” and Feuilly hangs up.

Jehan lowers their phone and takes a moment to collect their thoughts. They need to watch themselves, that is certain. But that doesn’t mean they need to be gloomy about it. Montparnasse had made them feel a lot of things, but not fear. No, he would not be able to harm them. That was no guarantee of his good intentions however. Jehan got to their feet and kneeled beside their bed. They felt around underneath it, rummaging through the various objects too big to tidy away in their cupboards.

“Come on,” they mutter. “Where- ah!”

Triumphantly they pull out a piece of wood. It is just an old piece of board, but it is oak wood and oak wood is powerful. It doesn’t matter that it has been a table. What matters is that it was once a mighty tree.

Jehan puts the piece of wood on their desk and takes out their ink and brushes. They sit down, smiling slightly with the anticipation of magic bubbling in their chest, and unscrews the top of the inkwell. Black. Black is the right colour. Jehan chooses a brush and holds the tip over the black liquid. They smile and, in the interest of magic, for a moment they indulge themselves.

_Elegant fingers spreading out on the wooden counter. Twinkling lights hidden in green eyes. Black locks tumbling in front of curved eyebrows. A knowing smirk twitching the corners of a mouth towards defined cheekbones. A voice dripping with insolent pleasantry. Soft cherry lips. The faint taste of lemon and thievery._

Without looking Jehan puts the ink drenched brush to the wood and paints. They paint letters. Bold and dark, yet curved and elegant. The hairs of the brush twist and turn and the letters spell:

**_Montparnasse_ **

When Jehan lifts their brush the name is complete. They stare at it. It looks good. Beautiful. The letters look like how Montparnasse had felt. That is very important and Jehan is pleased with their handiwork. They sit back and wait for the ink to dry. Even if it’s only a last name that will be enough for this to work. First names are more powerful of course and for human sorcery you’d definitely need a first name or even a full name, but faerie magic is different. Besides, Jehan has only good intentions. Not entirely disinterested perhaps, but good nonetheless. Curses require much more than benign magic.

The letters are almost dry and Jehan gets up and kindles a small fire in the antique tile stove that is nestled in one corner of the room. Jehan still wishes they could have an actual fireplace, but they know they shouldn’t be picky. They are lucky this place came with a stove. The landlord even offered to remove it for them. Strange man.

Jehan stares at the beginning fire, slowly growing flames reflected in their hazel eyes, until it starts crackling merrily. Then they fetch the oak slab from their desk and carefully brush past the letter with their pale fingers. The ink does not smudge. Jehan draws themself up to their full height and breathes in the smell of the fire. For a moment the wood grows heavy in their hands and when they speak the rustle of magic is in their voice:

“Friend or foe?”

They close their eyes and cast the oak slab into the fire.

The board falls with a thump and eagerly the flames wrap themselves around the wood. Jehan stares with very mixed feelings. If the wood burns up, Montparnasse is a threat. If it stays unharmed, he is not. The flames whirl and dance and once again there is that thrill in Jehan’s chest. The wood is not burning. The flames are not scorching it. But just as a smile is beginning to form on their lips, a spark flares green and not the wood, but the _ink_ catches fire. Jehan takes a startled step back as the entire fire dies out except for vibrant flames that burn the carefully crafted letters deep into the wood until they are scorched there instead of painted. With a hiss the flames die down and die, leaving the otherwise unblemished piece of oak lying in a pile of ash.

Jehan stares at the scorched letters. There is something mocking about their frayed edges and the smoke smells of magic turned against itself. As the heat of the quickly dispersed fire begins to fade Jehan’s eyes begin to glitter with unrestrained, wild curiosity. They know what went wrong. They _understand_ what just happened. Why their magic had not worked…

Montparnasse. The most enticing mortal they had ever met. The one that had dared to steal from them, insult them and then _kiss_ them…goes by a chosen name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys are you aware of how much I love faerie lore? _Are you aware???_
> 
> Next chapter up right now because I have no self control!
> 
> Edit: Isle-of-innisfree helpfully pointed out that I gave Jehan a cast iron stove, which would be a lot of hastle for them to use! So I changed it into one of those nice tile stoves you see in old houses sometimes. (I adore it when readers are so attentive <3)


	3. In which a wound is mended

Montparnasse is above running - unless he’s running to disappear - but he’s moving a lot faster right now than he usually would. When he bursts through the door of the should-be-vacant house he is actually a little out of breath.

“Sous!” he raises his voice. “Sous!”

A door opens and Claquesous appears, looking dismayed. “You’re excited,” he grimaces. “What the fuck did you do this time?”

Montparnasse grabs his friend by the arm, grinning widely into his face. “I found a faerie.”

Claquesous stares at him with a blank look on his face.

Montparnasse waits, grin never faltering.

“You’re kidding,” Claquesous says bluntly.

“I’m not,” Montparnasse smirks.

“A _fullblood_?” Claquesous demands.

“That’s hardly an appropriate question to ask at a first meeting,” Montparnasse says airily. “But considering I couldn’t leave their shop after stealing something from them…”

The look on Claquesous otherwise restrained face is priceless. “You found a faerie working in a _shop_ ,” he snaps.

“Right here in good old Paris,” Montparnasse grins. “I don’t think anyone knows. They only told me what they were because I accused them of spellbinding me.”

“And they still let you  go free of consequences?” Claquesous gapes. He looks genuinely angry now.

“I’m here, aren’t I,” Montparnasse grins, but he remembers the beautiful, unnerving smile Jehan gave him when talking of the price of faerie contracts and for a moment a thrill slides down his back.

“Can’t be a fullblood,” his friend grunts, looking away.

Montparnasse lets out a loud laugh. “You’re just pissy because your magically inclined ass never managed to find one.” Honestly, this is a great day.

“Fuck you,” Claquesous rolls his eyes and turns away.

“I’ve never accepted that offer before but you keep trying,” Montparnasse calls after him.

Claquesous doesn’t reply and slams the kitchen door behind him.

Still chuckling, Montparnasse trots up the stairs to his own bedroom. He puts up with being on the second floor because it gives him more privacy. Gueulemer is loud whether he is asleep or awake and since Brujon moved in he runs in and out of Montparnasse’s room enough without him being actually across the hallway. He runs in and out of everywhere actually. All the time. Montparnasse would bitch about it if he didn’t like the kid so much. They all pretend they only let him move in to keep him off the street. They have an entire house to themselves after all. Technically they are squatting there, but under the cover of Claquesous illusions – that  keeping the place looking like it’s still abandoned -  they’ve managed to get a very comfortable household up and running. Brujon is a good addition, if only because it means Montparnasse isn’t the youngest anymore. It’s better being with five than with four anyway. Five is a better number. Certainly for a coven. Not that they _are_ a coven. That would make Claquesous the leader and Montparnasse won’t stand for that.

With a smirk Montparnasse sits down in his old leather chair. He gives Claquesous about two minutes.

He’s not quite right. A full five minutes pass before Claquesous suddenly stalks into the room and sits down on the chest at the foot of Montparnasse’s bed. Montparnasse hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs, but that’s nothing new. Claquesous is as quiet as Brujon and Gueulemer are loud.

“What did they look like?” Claquesous asks, as if their conversation was never interrupted.

Montparnasse smirks, but graciously decides not to be any more of an asshole about it. “Beautiful,” he says and he can’t quite keep the genuine admiration out of his voice.

“Might not be real,” Claquesous points out.

Montparnasse shrugs. He doesn’t really care. Jehan was beautiful standing before him and they are beautiful in his memory.

“Specifics?” Claquesous prompts.

Leaning back in his chair a little, Montparnasse considers how much he should tell his friend. He told him about Jehan because he was too smug about finding a faerie not to, but right now what happened this afternoon is still all his own. He’s not sure if he wants to share…

“Come on, man,” Claquesous hisses. “You’re not keeping this from me.”

“I think I am,” Montparnasse says languidly. “At least for now…”

Claquesous’ arms jerk in an angry movement. It’s not directed at Montparnasse specifically and he is not fazed by it. Claquesous won’t really be angry. He has been wanting to prove there are still faeries left in Paris for years. Ultimately the fact that Montparnasse found them won’t really lessen his victory. It just tarnishes it a little. Which is something Montparnasse is going to enjoy rubbing in his face.

“I have no idea what kind they are,” he says. “And I might not have made a first impression that allows me to waltz back in there with a friend and expect a friendly reception. I’m thinking of going back sometime next week and being a little more charming.” He winks. “If we hit it off I’ll take you with next time.”

Claquesous gives him a resentful look from behind his long hair, but doesn’t argue. Montparnasse regards him quietly and considers that if Ponine tells Claquesous he met her and Cosette at their favourite café today it will probably take him about three seconds to put one and two together. Maybe he won’t wait an entire week to go back…

“Have you got _any_ idea what bloodline they are?” Claquesous asks eagerly after a frustrated silence.

“Not really,” Montparnasse says. He wishes he did. If he had had Babet with him it would have been different, but then Babet would have immediately called Claquesous. “They were…” He waves his hands about. “Delicate. In looks I mean. Not so much in- They got really pissed when I accused them of using magic on me.”

Claquesous listens intently. Montparnasse can see the eagerness in his eyes. That right there is why he doesn’t want to share yet. Claquesous is interested in faeries in a way Montparnasse never was. Not really. But…he can still see Jehan so vividly in his memory. The feeling of their hazel eyes, fixed on him with such sparks of anger that he would never have guessed to look so good on so gentle a face. Montparnasse may not have sorcery in his soul, or even magic in his blood…he knows what he saw in Jehan wasn’t faerie glamour. He doesn’t know what it _is_ , but he knows it’s real. He _felt_ something real and Montparnasse wants to know what that is before he lets this secret go. He may not have cared about faeries before, but now he does and Claquesous will have to wait. It’s selfish. It’s indulgent. But those are two of Montparnasse’s favourite things.

Despite this, or maybe because of this, he doesn’t stop talking. And of course Claquesous knows how to listen like no other.

“They looked young,” Montparnasse muses. “But they felt young too. I don’t think this was one of your centuries old faeries.”

“Young for a faerie might still be decades old,” Claquesous points out.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse retorts. “About two whole decades I’d wager.”

Claquesous pulls a face and Montparnasse grins. There’s  silence that would be tense if Montparnasse’s mind didn’t wander off immediately. Their hair had been so red…

“When are you going back?” Claquesous breaks into his thoughts.

Montparnasse turns his eyes on him, slowly. “Sous,” he says. “I’d trust you with my life, but there’s no way in hell I am telling you that.”

Before Claquesous can answer that with more than a roll of his dark eyes there is a loud slamming of doors downstairs.

“Brujon or Gueul?” Montparnasse asks, slanting his head.

A clamour of loud voices comes rolling up the stairs. “Both,” Claquesous says.

The voices don’t stop however and when they hear the sound of Babet’s voice they both get up to see what is the matter. Babet rarely raises his voice. They find their three housemates in the kitchen. Gueulemer is leaning against the kitchen table, making it creak dangerously and Babet is leaning over Brujon, who is seated, telling him to sit still. He does, for about a second, but as soon as Montparnasse and Claquesous come in he immediately turns towards them and flashes them a wide grin.

Montparnasse winces. Brujon has a big gash on the side of his head.

“Jesus, Brujon,” Claquesous hisses.

“What did you do?” Montparnasse asks wearily.

“I-” Brujon begins proudly and then lets out a painful yelp as Babet presses a cloth with disinfectant to the wound.

“I told you to sit still,” Babet grumbles. He gives Brujon a shove and continues cleaning the wound. Babet has no sorcery, but he has skilful hands.

“Got into a fight, didn’t he,” Gueulemer’s voice rumbles. He sounds accusatory yet proud.

It hasn’t escaped Montparnasse’s notice that one of his calloused hands is stained with blood. Might be Brujon’s, but you never know.

“They deserved it,” Brujon states. He looks at Montparnasse from under Babets arm. “Some asshole called you a-” He cuts himself off and huffs. “I broke his nose.”

Montparnasse’s mouth twitches. “Next time you go defending my honour,” he says. “Take care you don’t get hit back.”

“That wasn’t him,” Brujon says immediately. “That was one of his loser friends.”

“Well he got you good,” Claquesous remarks, looking over Babet’s shoulder. “Luck not on your side today?”

Claquesous is actually the only one of them that has sorcery, magic he can actually _control_. Brujon does have magic, but he can’t control it. It merely manifests as an amazing amount of good luck. The boy spends most of his time falling off high structures and putting his hands on other people’s property and yet he rarely gets either hurt or caught. When he _does_ though, it’s always bad.

“Nah, I _was_ lucky!” Babet crows. “Dude that nicked me lost his balance trying to get a second swing in.” He grins again. “Damn near cracked his head open on the pavement.”

Gueulemer grins and Montparnasse can’t hold back a chuckle.

“You’re lucky this isn’t deeper,” Babet hums. “Or you’d have needed stitches.” He puts down the cloth. “Cut me some plasters?”

It’s addressed at the room in general but it’s Montparnasse that picks up the scissors and begins to cut plasters into a swallow’s tail shape to close the gash.

“Little jerk hit Brujon with a bottle,” Gueulemer mutters. “Should have stuck around to teach him a proper lesson.”

Montparnasse makes a sharp sound at the back of his throat. Claquesous and Babet say nothing, and Brujon lets out an unconcerned hum that is the result of seventeen years of near consequence-free impulsivity.

“What about you guys?” he asks merrily. “Anything interesting happen to you?”

Montparnasse can feel Claquesous eyes burning on the back of his head. “Had a day off,” he replies casually. “Didn’t do much of anything.”

“Had a little run in with Chetta,” Claquesous says after a short silence.

Montparnasse looks up. “What did she want?” he asks sharply. He really thinks it’s a rotten deal the one sorceress in the neighbourhood even close to Claquesous level of strength has to be a damn clairvoyant.

“Just another couple of friendly cautions,” Claquesous says indifferently. “Nothing to worry about.” He smirks. “She won’t bother us. She’s too busy with her happily cursed husbands.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Gueulemer grunts. Real curses were rare, but they did exist. From a distance it was nigh impossible to tell the difference between someone with eternal bad luck or who was continually getting sick, and someone who had actually been cursed.

Claquesous glances at him, making eye contact for a fraction of a second. He doesn’t _say_ sorry.

“Done,” Montparnasse says and he offers Babet the plasters.

Babet nods his thanks and begins closing the gash. Brujon winces, but Babet’s pale brown fingers work both fast and carefully. It’s over in no time.

“Well Brujon,” Montparnasse grins, slinging an arm over the boys shoulder while Babet wash walks to the sink to was his hands. “What did we learn?”

Brujon looks uncertain for a moment.

“We’ve learned that _before_ we punch transphobes in the face, we check if their garbage friends are holding any bottles,” Montparnasse says and he lets Brujon go with a friendly shove against the shoulder.

Brujon beams with the implied approval and bounces on the balls of his feet. “We got a job tonight?”

They all glance at Montparnasse, who shakes his head.

“Then I’m gonna ask Princess if she’ll go out with me,” Brujon grins.

“Don’t let Nìne catch you,” Montparnasse smirks, but he knows Ponine is completely aware of her little sister’s current late-night excursions. She told him herself, sourly adding that being on the streets is better than being at home anyway. Montparnasse has to agree. Her parents are so superstitious through guilty consciences that they sport double last names and all three of their children have two nicknames a piece, even though their names are so rare no one could ever guess them. Clearly they were more eager to protect them from curses than to treat them decently themselves. The only reason Ponine even comes home anymore is for Princess and Pup. She spends most of her time with Cosette or Pontmercy, or both.

“Come here for a sec,” Claquesous orders and Brujon obediently comes to stand before him. Claquesous gently touches the side of his head and Montparnasse watches how the patched up gash changes from raw and bruised looking to neat and clean. It’s only an illusion, but it looks a lot less unseemly. “There,” Claquesous says with a slight smirk. “Enough to brag about, not bad enough to freak her out.”

Once again Brujon beams and he darts out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.

“Put a clean shirt on!” Montparnasse calls after him.

“Did anyone get seriously hurt?” Babet asks Gueulemer.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Told ‘em all to get lost. He was out of my sight for ten minutes. Come back and I have five little shits to threaten to beat up and a laughin’ bleedin’ Jon to drag home.”

“You’d make a shit dad, Gueul, but a damn good older brother,” Montparnasse chuckles.

“He should be more careful,” Babet sighs. “The luck gets to his head.”

“Lots of things can get to a man’s head,” Claquesous says snidely.

Montparnasse ignores him. While Gueulemer starts on dinner and Babet and Claquesous argue amicably about something that nearly went wrong during their last break-in, Montparnasse thinks of muffins and barely repressed smiles and large, shining hazel eyes. He feels something like heat creeping onto his face when he remembers their soft lips against his. The surprised intake of breath and the smell of baked goods mingled with fresh flowers. He smirks. Never kiss a faerie… Whoever thought that was a rule worth keeping had clearly never broken it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually don't upload stories until they are complete, but I couldn't wait with this one. I also don't really know how to continue this. I mean, I know where I want to end up and I've got most of the characters figured out, but I don't know how to get them there.
> 
> What I do know is that this will be fluffy! This will be faeries and flirting guys, no angst. So if you're dying to see someone walk into Jehan's café or you have a question, please send it my way and I'll see what I can do :)


	4. In which a word is spoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone that has left comments or kudo's or appreciation on tumblr! <3
> 
> Here, have some more shameless flirting.

It is Friday afternoon and the café is busy with people. If there had been a bell at the door it would have been ringing non-stop. (When they had bought the place there had been bells, little silver ones. But even though Jehan loved them, they had taken them down immediately. Silver bells in the doorway of a fairy shop…that was a risk they weren’t willing to take.) Today most of the customers are only running in and out to get some treats to take home. Jehan’s new raspberry tarts are flying off the shelves.

“I don’t know how you do it!” a woman laughs. ”When I bake with raspberries the pips always get stuck between my teeth.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Jehan winks. It certainly does, but magic is faster.

Jehan loves days like these, when their shop is full of friendly faces. It’s even better today, because the Friday regulars are here and they brought a friend  today. They have pushed two of the tiny tables together and have abandoned their attempts at studying long ago.

With a cheerful “Have a lovely day!” Jehan bids the last customer at the counter goodbye, just in time to hear the young man called Ange say:

“…about faeries, honestly Ferre.”

Jehan freezes for a moment.

“Well of course I can’t prove it,” the one named Ferre answers. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

Jehan relaxes a little. They have seen Ferre with books about magic before. He is clearly a student of the occult, but Jehan can’t feel a spec of magic in him, so it never worried him.

“There must be faeries around,” says the shortest of the four friends, who Jehan thinks is called Courf. “Or people with faerie blood.” He grins. “ _They_ can’t all have died out. Everybody says my abuela is part duende for sure.”

“Courf,” Ange says. “If there was as much magic in the world as you see in it, we would _notice_.” He shakes his head, making his golden hair tumble past his face.

“We _know_ magic is real,” Ferre points out. “Duende or no duende, Courf’s grandmother can heal people.”

“Yes,” Ange says gravely. “And she is an exception. If there really were sorcerers on every street corner don’t you think we’d see more marvels? Both of the terrible and the amazing kind.”

Jehan listens with a faint smile on their face. Magic rarely creates marvels. Most magic is of a smaller, more subdued sort. The few individuals, be they Fae or human, that are capable of creating actual marvels are usually too sensible to do so.

The discussion amongst the friends, or rather between Ferre and Ange, is growing more heated, until Courf wraps an arm around Ferre and leans his head against his shoulder.

“Leave Ferre alone,” he pouts at Ange. “We can believe in faeries if we want to.”

The fourth young man, who Jehan has never seen before and who up to this point has been silently eating a chocolate muffing, says suddenly:

“If you need a faerie to believe in look no further, there’s one right there!”

He waves dramatically in Jehan’s direction and Jehan stares at him in shock.

“R!” Ange snaps disapprovingly.

“It was just a joke,” R mutters.

Jehan starts breathing again and manages to look tolerably calm when Ange gets to his feet and walks over to the counter.

“Please don’t mind him,” he says, smiling apologetically.

“I don’t mind,” Jehan says, glancing back at R, who makes eye contact for a second to gage whether he actually offended them.

“People accuse me of being a faerie all the time,” Ange confides sympathetically. “It really isn’t funny.”

Jehan looks into his brilliant blue eyes framed by cascading golden curls and smiles. They have never seen a mortal that looks more like a Fae. They’ve thought that from the first time he walked into the café, but this is the first time they see him up close. The one called Courf usually orders for all three of them. “It’s the hair I guess,” they shrug with a smile, shaking their own curls.

“It’s silly,” Ange says.

“I really don’t mind,” Jehan assures him warmly. “But while you’re here can I get you guys a refill or anything?” They wink. “It’d be a shame if you had to walk all the way back.”

Ange laughs. The café is so tiny it’s hardly five big strides from side to side. “Actually,” he says. “Are there any chocolatines left?”

“Sure there are,” Jehan chimes. “One for each of you?”

“Please,” Ange nods.

There are only five chocolatines left, so Jehan just hands Ange the entire plate. “There you go,” they say. “The fifth one is free,” they add with emphasis, and then with a smile: “It’d be a shame to let it grow stale.” Not that Jehan’s pastries grow stale of course, but people don’t need to know that.

“Thank you,” Ange says earnestly. When he pays he adds a tip that’s nearly big enough to pay for the fifth pastry anyway.

Jehan carefully puts the extra money in the tip jar. They never keep tips, they give the money to a different charity every month. A tip is freely given, but Jehan doesn’t take risks in that department, a faerie must never be indebted to anyone.

When the four friends finally leave they get an extra particular goodbye from Ange and R flashes them a good-natured grin. With them gone the café is empty and Jehan really isn’t expecting any more customers before closing time, so they start to clean up. The café is usually as spotless as a cosy clutter can allow, but the kitchen much less so. Jehan is a messy baker and his pastries are so good because they are handmade by magical hands, they haven’t been made out of nothing. Food created like that doesn’t fill, it only leaves you hungrier.

Jehan hears the bell ring in the café and quickly wipes their hands on their apron.

“You’re just in time,” they say cheerfully, swinging the kitchen door open. “I was about to-” They freeze in the doorway.

Montparnasse is leaning elegantly against the counter. This time without his leather jacket, but in a wine red dress shirt. “What?” he grins. “Didn’t you believe me when I said that I’d come back?”

“To be honest, no,” Jehan lies, letting the kitchen door close behind them. Their heart is jittering in their chest. Their memories hadn’t made Montparnasse any more beautiful or any more intriguing than he actually was.

Montparnasse tuts at them. “I never lie about matters of pleasure,” he says smugly. “So believe me-” He grins. “-when I tell _you_ I’ll come back, I’ll definitely come back.”

Despite Jehan’s best efforts they can feel their cheeks burning. They did want Montparnasse to come back, but now they really wish he hadn’t. They also wish they weren’t blushing and that Montparnasse wasn’t quietly laughing at them for it. “Well you should have come back at a more convenient time,” they say coolly. “I close in five minutes.”

“Oh,” Montparnasse says and before Jehan can slap his hand away he’s snatched a mint brownie from a platter and stuffed it into his mouth.

“You-!” Jehan cries, throwing their hands up.

Montparnasse swallows. “Oops,” he says, smirk immediately back on his face. He swallows again and then makes a smacking sound with his tongue. “Hey, those are really good.”

“I know they are!” Jehan says indignantly. “And I made them to be _enjoyed_ not swallowed in one bite.”

The green eyes soften a little. “You’re right,” Montparnasse says. “Let me try another one.” He pulls out a leather wallet. “I’ll even pay.”

Jehan huffs. “I don’t want your money,” they say and that’s true, they don’t want his money. They want other things, things that are absolutely not what they need to be thinking about right now. Montparnasse’s smile reminds them of moonlight and bare feet on dewy grass… “How do I know your money isn’t stolen as well?”

“Oh no,” Montparnasse grins. “All my money is hard-earned…”

The way he says it invites questions and Jehan _wants_ to question him. They want to lock the café doors and listen to him talk through the night.

Suddenly Montparnasse is holding out a five euro note. “Please?” he says.

Silently, still carefully keeping their expression at least partly disapproving, Jehan takes his money and the hands him another brownie and his change.

“Thank you,” Montparnasse says politely.

Jehan _knows_ he’s pretending, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t working. They sigh and watch Montparnasse as he slowly bites into the brownie.

“How do you get the texture like that?” Montparnasse asks in between bites, but somehow without ever talking with his mouth full. “Is it magic?”

“No,” Jehan says airily. “Just good baking.”

“Hm,” Montparnasse hums in agreement. He swallows and licks some stray crumbs from his lips.

Jehan doesn’t look away because at this point, what’s the use?

“That is without a doubt the second best brownie I have ever eaten,” Montparnasse says sincerely.

It’s obvious bait and Jehan shouldn’t take it, but again, what’s the use. “And _what_ ,” they ask with a gentle eye-roll. “Was the best one?”

“That first one just now,” Montparnasse grins. “Stolen things _always_ taste better.”

Jehan shakes their head and grins, because Montparnasse looks far too pleased with himself. “Why did you come back?” he demands to know.

“Because I wanted to,” Montparnasse answers immediately. “And believe it or not, I have very poor impulse control.”

This time Jehan laughs and Montparnasse looks so surprised and delighted that they laughs again. A faerie laugh does not sound like a human laugh. Laughing out loud in mortal company is risky. But it feels _good_ to laugh out loud and it feel good to see those green eyes light up at the sound of it. And why should he have all the impulse control, when Montparnasse is _clearly_ doing all of this on purpose?

“Have you thought of what you’re going to give me in return for my stolen goods yet?” they ask teasingly. “I like to keep to my closing times…”

Montparnasse’s face falls a little. “Oh,” he says, looking away. “Of course… I mean, I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“You can’t leave,” Jehan reminds him playfully. “Yet.”

Montparnasse glances up at him. “True,” he says, already grinning slightly again. “Did you have anything in mind?”

Jehan can almost hear Feuilly scolding him across time and space, but they walk around the counter and pull out one of the chairs of the most nearby table. They gesture invitingly at Montparnasse and they both sit down. “What you could do…” they say, leaning their elbows on the table. “Is tell me why you have a chosen name.”

Montparnasse is lounging in his chair and he keeps his relaxed position, but Jehan can see the mild shock on his face. They definitely take pleasure in seeing it too.

“Mortals don’t use chosen names,” they say curiously. “Except for some sorcerers and sorceresses…” They smile. “And you may look like you have magic, but you don’t.”

“Oh?” Montparnasse says, drawing up an eyebrow. “Tell me. What part of me looks magical?”

“I’m not answering any questions before you answer mine,” Jehan says decidedly.

Montparnasse slants his head. “How can you tell who has magic or not?” he asks curiously.

Jehan presses their lips together meaningfully.

Montparnasse grimaces. “You’re wrong about mortals and chosen names… Everyone in my house has one.”

“Clever,” Jehan hums. “Did your sorcerer friend teach you that?”

“Something like that,” Montparnasse hums amusedly. “And how did you know about him?”

“You know too much,” Jehan shrugs. So Feuilly had been right… “Does your friend know about me?”

Clearly Montparnasse has heard the tension in that question, because he looks more serious when he answers: “I couldn’t resist telling him I found a Fae, but I did not give him your name or where you were.” He sits up a little. “And I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Jehan can hear the honesty in his words. Montparnasse’s voice sounds like it’s accustomed to lying. _Very_ accustomed. But he’s not lying now.

“He’ll be annoyed with me,” Montparnasse continues. “Because he’d give pretty much anything to meet you.”

“Why?” Jehan asks.

“Because he’s been saying there must some be faeries left in Paris for as long as I’ve known him,” Montparnasse smiles. He laughs. “He was so pissed off that I found one before he could. Insisted you couldn’t be a full blood.”

“It would make very little difference if I wasn’t,” Jehan says meaningfully. “Even a quarter faerie blood is enough.”

Montparnasse wisely does not ask ‘enough for what’. “I could bring him…” he says after a short silence. “If you’d be okay with that.”

Jehan hesitates. He’s never met a sorcerer. They are rare nowadays and Fae try to stay out of their way. But they’re curious. Human magic is so different from faerie magic. “What kind of magic does he have?”

“He makes illusions,” Montparnasse answers.

Jehan raises their eyebrows in surprise.

“What?” Montparnasse asks.

“Nothing,” Jehan hums. “That’s rare, is all.”

“Heh,” Montparnasse grimaces. “Sous will be pleased with that.”

Jehan nods slowly. A sorcerer with the ability to craft illusions. They were quite common once. But that was in the old times. Back when… They glance up. “Yes,” they say brightly. “Brim him. I want to see him.”

Montparnasse’s face lights up. “When?”

“Whenever you like,” Jehan grins. “But-” They glance at the windows. “-you should leave… The sun is going down.” Montparnasse really shouldn’t be here when twilight sets in.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” Montparnasse grins.

Jehan smiles. “Maybe you should be.”

Montparnasse looks at him in silence for a while.

Jehan looks back, leaning their elbows on the table and their chin on their hands. “You still haven’t really answered my question,” they point out.

“That’s because I don’t want to,” Montparnasse says.

Fair enough, and probably for the best. “Okay,” Jehan says. “Pick another payment then.”

Almost immediately a smile begins to dance in Montparnasse’s eyes. “One of my choices last time, was a word I’d never spoken, right?” he says, sinking his voice a little.

“Not any word,” Jehan says. “It has to mean something to you.”

Montparnasse nods and leans forward. He’s doing it slowly, as if he wants to give Jehan time to pull away, but they don’t. Instead they stubbornly keep their position, staring straight ahead until Montparnasse’s mouth is right by their ear. They can almost feel his breath on their skin when he whispers:

“Jehan…”

Jehan blinks and Montparnasse pulls back and steps away from the counter. He is almost smiling, almost grinning, but not quite.

“You can’t just give me back my own name,” Jehan says, skin burning with heat. “That doesn’t count.”

“Doesn’t it?” Montparnasse grins. Slowly he gets up and walks to the door and Jehan can feel he will be able to leave. Any word will do, as long as it means something to the speaker…and the listener.

Montparnasse rests his hand on the curved door handle. “Am I allowed to leave, Jehan?” he asks, dropping his voice to a tone that would be meek if Jehan thought him even remotely capable of that.

“Yes,” they say quietly, even though their spoken permission is wholly unnecessary.

“Thank you,” Montparnasse grins. “Au revoir, Jehan.”

Jehan gets to their feet. Their heart is beating furiously. Yes, he _better_ come back. “Au revoir, Montparnasse.”

With a movement that is almost a bow Montparnasse opens the door and steps outside. Jehan watches him walk away with feelings that are so scattered across their mind and heart that they know only one thing for sure: they are not telling Feuilly about any of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is perfect stress-relief writing. I hope it was as fun to read :)
> 
> Now, would you like the next chapter to be from Parnasse's POV or shall we stay with Jehan?


	5. In which an introduction is made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Adrian and Catherine for being very encouraging in their different ways. ^^

The next morning, when Jehan goes to unlock the doors of the café, there is a green sprout growing beside the door, in the dirt revealed by a few missing cobblestones. Cheerfully they step outside and close the door behind them to get a closer look.

“Hello,” Jehan says tenderly, crouching to examine it. “You’re very brave.” They carefully touch the little leaves, but a sprout is a sprout, they can’t tell what it’s going to be yet. “You’re a little ahead of the seasons,” Jehan says kindly. “But you’ll have a little help, so maybe you’ll be alright.” Plants always do well around them.

Jehan gets back up and looks into their café through the glinting window panes. It looks nice and cosy. Like it always does. They love this place.

“Excuse me? Are you open?”

Jehan turns around and looks up into the face of a tall young man with a head as bald as his smile is wide. “Yes I am!” they chime. “What can I get you?” With a flourish they open the door and followed the new customer inside.

“Oh, I just need something for my lunch,” he says merrily. “I lost mine.”

Jehan looks at him. They usually don’t actually chat to customers, but… “What do you mean lost?” they ask, frowning slightly.

“Eh,” the customer laughs. “It’s a long story…there was a bird involved.”

“Okay,” Jehan says, swallowing a laugh. “Are you in a hurry? I only have pastries ready to go. Not really a healthy lunch.”

“No,” the man chuckled. “My better third would scold me for that and I’m not in a hurry. Life’s too short for hurrying.”

“Then I can make you a sandwich,” Jehan says happily. “What do you want on it?”

“Surprise me,” the young man says, eyes crinkling pleasantly.

Jehan breezes into the kitchen. They’re glad Fauvent will deliver a fresh batch of bread on Monday, they are almost out. Jehan does not bake their own bread. Bread is inherently the food of humanity and they are not at all convinced they would do a good job. Boulangerie Madeleine has excellent bread though and Jehan is proud to serve it.

“Here you go,” they smile when they present the cheerful young man with his sandwiches. They made two, he looks like he could use it.

“Thank you,” he says. “How much do I owe you?”

Despite their best efforts Montparnasse drifts straight back into Jehan’s mind. The shimmer of gold the customers earn in exchange for the food that Jehan makes. That is the deal. That is always the deal. Except Montparnasse changed the deal, _twice_ , and suddenly it all seems rather…arbitrary.

“Actually,” they say, leaning on the counter. “I’ll trade you the sandwiches for the story about what happened to your lunch.” They _really_ want to know.

“Really?” the young man laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s funny actually, you saying you’ll trade me. Because I traded my first lunch.”

Jehan raises their eyebrows. “With whom?”

“A bird,” he says sheepishly.

“A bird?” Jehan echoes. They have to stop themself from laughing again. Maybe they shouldn’t be talking like this, but he’s so curious and this customer is so friendly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Actually I – Look.” He puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a pair of silver earrings.

They catch the light beautifully and Jehan slips their hands in their apron pocket just in case.

“I had forgotten these were still in my pocket,” the young man explains. “So when I searched for my metro card this morning they fell out and before I could pick them up a bird snatched one of them.”

The corners of Jehan’s mouth quiver.

“I went after it of course,” he continues. “But I couldn’t catch it and it wouldn’t let go…so I traded my lunch.”

“You offered a bird your lunch in exchange for an earring?” Jehan says, delighted.

“Yes,” the young man laughs. “And I got it back, see.” He grins.

“That’s a wonderful story,” Jehan says. “Well worth two sandwiches.”

“Well, thank you!” he says, taking the paper wrapped package. He glances around the café. “This is a lovely place. When are you open?”

“Mornings and afternoons,” they answer pleasantly. “All days except Sunday.” Sundays do not belong to the fair folk. The passing of centuries has not changed that.

“Good to know!” the customer smiles. “Thank you again and if I can find this place again I’ll certainly be back!”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to find it again?” Jehan says amusedly. This isn’t that kind of shop after all.

“Oh you never know,” the young man laughs, moving towards the door “Have a lovely Saturday.”

“Bonne journée,” Jehan chimes and they watch him leave with a strange, light feeling in their chest. They chatted to a customer. _Another_ customer. But this time they were calm. This time there had been no shortness of breath or thumping hearts it had just been…pleasant. Maybe they’re getting better at it? Perhaps they can be a little more like Feuilly. He works with humans all the time. Some of them suspect he’s magic, but none of them know what he is. And Jehan is sure they don’t care to find out, because Feuilly is a person everybody just trusts. They smile. Yes, why not? Why shouldn’t they talk to people? People _other_ than Montparnasse. He has nothing to do with it. Nothing.

They _do_ wonder when Montparnasse will come back though, because this time they’re certain he will. If only because he said he’d bring his friend… Jehan is curious. Curious to see Montparnasse’s friend and curious to see them together. They know they shouldn’t be looking forward to all this quite so much though, so they try not to. In any case, they will not expect him today. He will certainly not come today. Except he might…

Montparnasse does not come that day and the Sunday that follows it seems very long and tiresome. Jehan goes about their business and scolds themself whenever their thoughts drift away. They are not like Feuilly at all. He would never lose his head over a silky voice and a handsome smirk. To distract themself they check on the little sprout growing outside regularly. It’s thriving, even more than plants naturally do around Jehan. They wonder what it will grow up to be.

On Monday he does not come.

On Tuesday he does not come.

On Wednesday Jehan feels a sudden jolt of nerves when the two girls that know Montparnasse come in. But they do not behave any different towards him. They greet him cheerfully and order scones as usual. Montparnasse has not betrayed their secret. The glow of happiness that this realization gives to Jehan could not have gone unnoticed by the girls, had they not been wrapped up in a particularly animated conversation.

“I covered for her of course, but Princess should know better.”

“You’re sweet when you fret about your siblings.”

“They’re a pain in my -“

“You love them, Nìne.”

“Course I do, don’t mean they can’t be a pain.”

“Cream or jam this time?” Jehan interjects cheerfully.

“Cosette?” the brunette now named Nìne asks.

“Jam please,” Cosette replies with a smile.

“Here you go,” Jehan beams. They love it when they learn new nicknames.

“Thank you,” Cosette says and the two turn away.

“Oh by the way,” Nìne says, turning back. “I always mean to say: I love your braids.”

Jehan flushes with the unexpected compliment. “Thank you!” they say happily.

Nìne flashes him a grin and she and Cosette walk to their usual table.

Jehan watches them go, cheerfulness bubbling in their insides.

They are still bubbling when the girls leave again, arm in arm and still talking rapidly. They do pause a moment to wish Jehan a good day however. It _is_ a good day and Jehan is happily rearranging the macarons when the door opens with a flourish. They look up, straight into Montparnasse’s grinning face.

“Have a pastry why don’t you?” Jehan says before he can even say a word. “Anything you want, it’s _free_.” Montparnasse laughs and Jehan gives him a pointed stare. They cannot let Montparnasse pull that trick a third time. They really can’t.

“I wasn’t going to do it again,” Montparnasse grins.

“Hands where I can see them then,” Jehan demands, but their eyes are twinkling. They can’t help it. Not while he’s grinning at them like that.

“I wish you were the first to demand that of me,” Montparnasse sighs dramatically as he holds up his hands and mockingly wiggles his fingers.

“Good,” Jehan says. Only then do they notice the young man standing a few paces behind Montparnasse. They glance at him curiously and have just time enough to take in long curly hair and a brown complexion, before two black eyes meet theirs and their own eyes widen.

♣

Montparnasse isn’t sure whether Jehan is nervous or just curious. He figures a quick introduction is probably best. “Jehan,” he says cordially. “This is my friend Sous.” He grins. “And Sous, this is the very _talented_ café owner, Jehan.”

Claquesous nods. He is staring at Jehan and Jehan is staring back.

Montparnasse grimaces. “Don’t be rude, Sous,” he says. “At least try to make a good impression.”

Jehan’s eyes leave Claquesous’ face and they look at Montparnasse. “Well, at least _he_ didn’t steal anything, so…”

Montparnasse clutches at his chest and Claquesous almost grins.

“So,” Jehan says, straightening up behind the counter. “What can I get you?”

Montparnasse glances around quickly. There are only three other customers and all of their plates are empty and their drinks at least half finished. There’s a fair chance they’ll leave soon.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says leisurely. “What do you feel like, Sous?”

Claquesous face is nearly expressionless. “Do you have tea?” he asks.

“All sorts,” Jehan chimes and they produce a box from under the counter. They glance at Montparnasse while Claquesous looks it over.

“Well, if I remember correctly, I can get any pastry I like,” he grins.

Jehan bites their lip slightly, but says nothing.

Montparnasse leans on the counter. Jehan doesn’t move. Montparnasse is almost annoyed with the mingled smells of fresh coffee and baked goods in the air. The flowery smell of Jehan’s hair is lodged in his memory, but just out of reach.

“What do you recommend?” he asks.

“Lemon meringue,” Jehan replies and one of their eyebrows quirks archly for a moment. “Since I know how much you like lemon.”

“I do,” Montparnasse grins. “So yes please. And a latte if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Jehan answers brightly. “If you pay for it.”

“Of course,” Montparnasse says innocently.

Claquesous glances at him and takes a masala chai from the box. “This one please,” he says, turning back to Jehan. “And a brownie.”

“It wouldn’t be very nice of me to make you pay,” Jehan says kindly.

Claquesous almost takes a step back and Montparnasse snickers. His friend is so tense it’s hilarious and for absolutely no reason too. Montparnasse may not have magic, but he’s good at reading people and Jehan clearly wouldn’t hurt a fly. Although, Montparnasse reminds himself, the emphasis in that sentence should be on wouldn’t. Montparnasse is pretty convinced Jehan could do a lot of damage if they wanted to. Claquesous probably senses that too, but Montparnasse really doesn’t know why that should put him on edge. Montparnasse for one is delighted. Flirting with someone as beautiful and sweet as Jehan is a delight. Flirting with someone as beautiful and sweet as Jehan with the realisation that it is probably stupid and dangerous to do so is downright exhilarating.

 “Don’t worry,” Jehan says, pushing a plate with a  brownie towards Claquesous. “It’s  free. Completely.” They smile and turn to cut off a piece of lemon meringue. “Call it a show of solidarity.”

“Solidarity?” Claquesous echoes blankly.

Montparnasse gives Jehan a curious look. That was a rather strange thing to say. Jehan seems to realise this, because they suddenly flush red. They do have a lovely blush. Montparnasse really wouldn’t mind seeing more of it.

“Oh you know,” they say hastily. “A welcome. First customer and all that. Here’s your tea water. I’ll bring you your latte in a minute.”

They turn away resolutely and avoid making eye contact. Montparnasse glances at Claquesous, who is still frowning. He wishes Claquesous wasn’t so sullen. If he knew he was going to be scowling like a suspicious owl all the time he wouldn’t have brought him. He’s clearly making Jehan nervous, they are fumbling with the cup and saucer.

“Come on,” Montparnasse says and he drags Claquesous to a table. “Would you stop staring,” he mutters as they sit down. Yes, he does feel a tiny bit hypocritical, but Claquesous doesn’t need to know that.

“I…” Claquesous shakes his head and tears his eyes away from the counter. “I just can’t believe that you can’t see it. I mean obviously they look…different.”

Understatement of the damn year, Montparnasse thinks privately, sticking his fork in the meringue.

“But I can’t tell they’re-” Claquesous doesn’t finish that sentence, because Montparnasse glares at him. He’s keeping his voice down, but the café is so tiny you can never be sure what might be overheard. He lowers his voice a little more. “Maybe they’re using something to mask it,” he mutters.

“Well once we are alone, you can ask them,” Montparnasse says quietly. He looks up just in time to see Jehan look away. The smirk that appears on his face is mostly involuntary, but he does very little to check it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this chapter did not want to get written! But here it is at last, in no small part because of the help of my lovely sister. The next chapter will be up soon (because it is basically finished already) and will continue this visit. :)


	6. In which a legend is told

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm really excited about this one, I hope you'll like it.)

Jehan has to physically force themself to go bring Montparnasse his drink and they do their level best to avoid eye contact with both him and Sous, who is still looking at them strangely. But how were they supposed to guess that he didn’t know? Montparnasse specifically said that his friend had been looking for faeries for a long time and the magic around him was so strong.

Mortified they try to focus on other things, but not long after one of the other customers leaves and Jehan realises they’ll be left alone together. Sure enough, the couple sitting in the corner soon follows. As soon as the door closes behind them Montparnasse turns around in his chair and looks towards the counter.

“Would it be bad etiquette to buy the barista a drink?” he grins.

Jehan can feel a blush rising to their cheeks again, but they cannot let Montparnasse fluster them. His friend is staring at them again. “No,” they answer calmly. “That would be fine. Not sure about the owner though.”

Sous snorts and grins slightly. Jehan slants their head, looking at him. He is using magic. They can _see_ it obscuring his face, changing his features.

“Speaking of etiquette,” Jehan says primly, walking around the counter. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t do that.”

Montparnasse straightens up in his seat, looking surprised, but Sous looks appropriately guilty. “So you can tell…” he says.

“Of course I can,”Jehan says. So he was testing them. That’s a little insulting. They narrow their eyes at him a little.

“I’m guessing this is a magic thing?” Montparnasse says, looking not entirely pleased at being left out.

Jehan pulls a third chair towards their table and sits down. “Yes,” they say. “And it’s really rather rude.”

Sous gives them a pensive look and suddenly holds out his hand. “Claquesous,” he says.

Jehan takes his hand and shakes it. “Jehan.”

“Dramatic,” Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “Not like I didn’t _just_ introduce you two.”

“Shut up,” Claquesous grunts and he gives Jehan another thoughtful look. “What did you mean when you said solidarity?”

Jehan glances at him. He really doesn’t know… “Well, you have sorcery,” they say airily, and guessing pride is as good an emotion to distract him with as any they add: “I’ve never actually met a sorcerer before.”

“You haven’t?” Montparnasse says, very surprised.

“It’s kind of in my best interest to stay away from magically inclined mortals,” Jehan points out.

“Fair enough,” Claquesous nods. He leans back. “But I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”

“Excuse my friend,” Montparnasse says with a grimace. “Illusionist are suspicious by nature.”

“Illusions?” Jehan echoes.

Claquesous raises his eyebrows. “You _just_ saw me use my magic.”

Yes they did and they saw them use glamour. Jehan does not know what to say and Claquesous’ eyes narrow.

“What did you think I was using?” he demands to know.

“How should I know?” Jehan protests. “I told you, I don’t know any sorcerers.”

“Well you know one now and he’d like a straight answer,” Claquesous says, leaning forward.

“I can’t bring you anywhere,” Montparnasse sighs, leaning back in his chair, but Claquesous isn’t listening and Jehan feels trapped.

“Why should me having illusionary magic surprise you?” Claquesous presses.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jehan says. They have to think of something to distract him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Claquesous says indignantly. “But the least you could do i-”

“ _Sous_ ,” Montparnasse groans. “Could you be chill for _one_ _minute_?”

“Why?” Claquesous snarls. “Since when do _you_ care about being polite? If someone lies to me I’ll call them out on it, mortal or not.”

“I did not lie about anything,” Jehan says, crossing their arms. “Parnasse said you wanted to meet me. For someone eager to meet a faerie, you’re not trying very hard to be agreeable.”

“Oh, sorry,” Claquesous bites. “Should I have arrived with a saucer of milk?”

Jehan’s eyes narrow. “That would have been nice. Do you want one yourself?”

Claquesous blinks. “What?”

“If we’re going to be insulting Fae weaknesses you might as well own up to your own,” they snap.

Montparnasse is looking between them and his friend with complete confusion on his handsome face, but Jehan doesn’t care.

Claquesous opens his mouth and closes it again. “You…you’re saying _I_ have faerie blood?”

“Clearly,” Jehan huffs. “I wasn’t going to say anything in company-” they glance at Montparnasse, “-but since you refuse to be polite I don’t see why I should be.”

“Wait,” Montparnasse says, sitting up. “ _Sous_ has faerie blood?”

“A fair bit I think,” Jehan says. No going back now. Claquesous looks completely speechless and Jehan offers them an a mused smile. “Got any great-grandparents that went missing and came back rather suddenly?”

“I…” Claquesous shakes his head, still stunned.

Suddenly Montparnasse bursts out laughing. “Holy shit, this is hilarious,” he snorts. “All your whining about damn faeries and you _are_ one.”

Jehan swallows their laugh. “Well,” they say. “At least you had a good reason for your curiosity.”

“Damn right I did!” Claquesous cries, recovering under the sound of Montparnasse’s laughter. He pushes his chair back and looks at Jehan with a mix of pride and utter frustration on his face. “How could I not know?”

“You’re still mortal,” Jehan smiles. “And where would the fair folk be if mortals would know us by sight?”

“Is it obvious?” he asks, trying to ignore Montparnasse, who is still snickering.

“To me it is,” Jehan says. “What you did just now, I would call that glamour, not an illusion.”

“But…I can place illusions on other things and people too,” Claquesous says. “Surely that can’t be glamour!”

Jehan hums. He’s impressed. Magic that lasts out of sight of its creator takes a lot of talent. “No,” they admit. “Something like that _would_ be an illusion. And a strong one at that.” They sit up straight and smile excitedly. “Your sorcery must have latched on to your faerie gifts.”

Claquesous looks smug for a moment, but then his face falls. “If you could tell, would others be able to?”

“Other Fae might,” Jehan replies. “But from what I know of sorcerers, they probably wouldn’t.”

Montparnasse clicks his tongue amusedly. “What about Chetta though?”

“Damn,” Claquesous mutters under his breath and something like actual anger flashes in his eyes.

“Who is Chetta?” Jehan asks curiously.

“A clairvoyant,” Montparnasse says, leaning towards them a little. “Sous doesn’t like her.”

Claquesous makes a grumbly noise. “Second sight is a sneaky gift,” he huffs.

“How do you know her?” Jehan asks, trying to sound nonchalant. They’ve never had an opportunity to find out about the magical mortals in Paris. They’ve always kept to themself so much.

“We all know each other,” Claquesous says. “Sorcerers and sorceresses I mean. Only a matter of time before you run in to each other. Especially if you parade around like Chetta.”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse smirks. “Unlike you of course.”

Claquesous glares.

“Are there many?” Jehan asks.

Montparnasse grins at them. “Sous likes to say there aren’t, don’t you Sous?”

“Not with my level of skill,” Claquesous says confidently. “Chetta would be close if she could do active magic, which she can’t.” He smirks. “Must be frustrating, to be able to do nothing but watch.”

“Unless you believe the stories about her…companions,” Montparnasse grins.

“Rubbish,” Claquesous scoffs.

“You’re teasing me,” Jehan complains. “What are the stories?”

“The guys she lives with,” Claquesous says. “Some people say she cursed them, but that’s a load of crap. If they’re cursed she didn’t do it. It’d be more like her to stick with them because someone _else_ cursed them. Try and take care of them.” He snorts.

“Are there any more?” Jehan asks eagerly.

Montparnasse’s green eyes sparkle at them. “Well…there’s Madame Simplice of course.” He speaks the name with very dramatic emphasis.

“And who,” Jehan says, deciding to take the bait, “is Madame Simplice?”

Montparnasse gives them an incredulous grin, but it is clear he is actually delighted. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Madame Simplice,” he says, lowering his voice.

“I haven’t heard of anyone,” Jehan rolls their eyes. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Simplice is the most powerful sorceress in Paris,” Claquesous says solemnly. His voice is filled with a respect Jehan is sure it does not often display.

“How do you know?” Jehan asks, leaning their chin on their hand. “Don’t you guys hide your magic as well?”

“They try,” Montparnasse hums. “But Simplice is a bit of a legend.”

That sounds interesting. Jehan glances between Montparnasse and Claquesous. “So what is her gift?”

“She is incapable of speaking falsehoods,” Claquesous says.

“That sounds like a curse rather than a gift,” Jehan observes.

Montparnasse hums thoughtfully, but Claquesous says: “I’d take it in a heartbeat, whatever she says, if she truly wants it to be so, it _will_ be the truth.”

“Oh…” Jehan nods. One of those gifts. Very dangerous.

“Except,” Montparnasse grins. “She never uses it. No one has _ever_ heard her speak with magical intent.”

Jehan nods. If they had a gift like that they might do the same. It does raise a question though. “Then how do you know she is so powerful?” he asks.

“Because she used her full power _once_ ,” Montparnasse grins.

“About twenty years ago,” Claquesous says solemnly. “She _cursed_ someone.”

“Was it an accident?” Jehan asks concernedly. “Is that why she does not use magic any more?”

“It was not an accident,” Montparnasse smirks.

“How do you know?” Jehan protests. They know of mortals who speak curses and they rarely repent. A mortal with a gift like that inclined to place curses would never stop.

“Because it wasn’t just any curse,” Claquesous says, eyes glittering. “She hit him with a trinity.”

Jehan looks at Montparnasse, who slowly raises three fingers and counts:

“May any food he takes, turn to ashes in his mouth… May every word he speaks, tear open his throat… May every step he takes, stab his feet like knives…”

Jehan shudders, but they don’t believe it. “How can you know?” they say. “It was so long ago.”

“A curse like that no one is allowed to forget,” Claquesous says. “His name is cursed with it.”

“You know his name?” Jehan whispers.

“One of the stories has her screaming it into the wind until it was carried off,” Montparnasse grins.

“Well,” Jehan challenges. “What is his name then?”

Montparnasse grimaces and looks at Claquesous.

“Forget it,” he says. “You say it.”

“And here I thought you were the amazing sorcerer,” Montparnasse snarks.

“You know his name but you don’t want to say it?” Jehan smiles. “What, do you think it’s bad luck?” Curses do not work that way.

“Told you,” Montparnasse. “It’s cursed. Speaking his name is revolting.”

“Now I definitely need to hear it,” Jehan grins. They are enjoying this. Who knew the mortals of Paris had their own legends.

Montparnasse swallows. “F-” he starts and stops. “Fé-” He shudders.

Jehan looks at him amusedly and he pulls a face.

He takes in a sharp breath. “ _Félix Tholomyès_ ,” he spits and immediately gags.

Claquesous grins. “See,” he says. “Cursed.”

“What did he _do_?” Jehan gapes.

“The story doesn’t tell,” Claquesous says regretfully. “But I doubt anyone ever tried it again.”

Montparnasse drains the rest of his latte as if he needs to wash the taste of the name from his mouth, but when he puts the cup down he’s grinning again. “I guess it’s true that faeries like stories, hm?”

“ _I_ like stories,” Jehan says airily. They smile. “Tell me another one.”

“There’s not that many real sorcerers in Paris,” Claquesous says.

“There’s the cop that pretends he isn’t one,” Montparnasse smirks.

“He isn’t a proper one,” Claquesous says scornfully. “Magic shouldn’t be allowed to be wasted on a mind like that…or on cops in general.”

“Oh?” Jehan says, raising an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Well it would make our job a lot harder for starters,” Montparnasse quips.

“Dare I ask what that job is?” they smile.

“We’re specialists,” Montparnasse grins. “You need something special…we can get it for you.”

Jehan slants their head and thinks of slender fingers snatching brownies. “I see…” they hum. “Let me guess, especially if the something special already belongs to someone else?”

Montparnasse inclines his head gracefully.

With great effort Jehan resists the urge to ask for elaboration. They do not need to hear stories of Montparnasse sneaking into forbidden places and taking things that do not belong to him. They really don’t. They really, really- “So, no more stories of sorcery to tell?” they hastily cut off their own thoughts.

“Well, there’s always Marius Pontmercy,” Montparnasse snorts.

Claquesous makes a frustrated noise.

“Who is that?” Jehan asks. They have never heard a double chosen name before.

“An anomaly,” Claquesous grumbles. “Pontmercy is just… The dude comes across like a complete idiot, but…literally _everyone_ knows the guy’s name. He bloody introduces himself to basically everyone he meets. He has to either be a seriously strong sorcerer or be under some form of protection. No one else would be that stupid.”

Montparnasse shakes his head. “He might be though.”

“You know him personally then?” Jehan asks.

“For my sins,” Montparnasse grimaces. “You might have seen him yourself actually. Those girls I met here the first time? He hangs around them a lot.”

“I don’t remember anyone coming in here with a lot of magic,” Jehan shakes their head. “But if he’s as powerful as you say, maybe he put the protection on the pretty girl that dyed her hair pink.”

“Cosette?” Montparnasse frowns. “She has protection?”

Claquesous looks surprised too.

No wonder he resents the woman with the second sight, Jehan thinks, he cannot have any of it himself. “A very strong one,” they nod. They had noticed it the first time she walked through the door. They presumed that was why she was almost always laughing. The Laughing Blonde had good reason to laugh, Jehan was pretty sure no harm could come to her in any way.

Jehan could not know it, but it was Cosette’s mother that was responsible for the protection that lay around her. One autumn day she bargained away the gold in her hair, the sapphire in her eyes and the pearls in her teeth in exchange for a protection spell to be woven around her daughter. It left her so plain that nowadays no one would guess she is the mother of the beautiful Cosette. But when they laugh everyone knows, because they have the same laugh, and it is full of happiness.

“What about you?” Claquesous asks suddenly. “Do you have stories? Are there a lot of faeries in Paris?”

Jehan keeps their face neutral. “Not really,” they say. “We’re not very socially minded. Not since we left the courts… And we were never very good at being families.” That was true at least. “It’s one of the things I like about humans,” they smile. “Your families, your communities.” They will not tell them about Feuilly.

“Don’t you have stories?” Claquesous asks, a little disappointed.

“Only old stories,” Jehan says with a shake of the head, but then they recollect. “Well, there is one story. From a century ago? About a changeling that went against the last French faerie court.”

“We told our stories,” Montparnasse says meaningfully, leaning back in his chair.

Jehan smiles. Fair is fair. “He has so many names he might as well not have one,” Jehan says. “But the name I know him by is Bahorel. He was a changeling.”

“A stolen mortal?” Claquesous asks.

“No,” Jehan grins. “The faerie child they left behind. One of the very last.” They allow themself a little glamour to tell the story, just a tad, a good story needs to be done justice.

Neither Montparnasse nor Claquesous seem to notice.

“He grew up among mortals,” they say. “But he was so wild and restless everyone knew something wasn’t right. The story goes that when he found out what he was, he went to look for the court that exchange him for his parent’s child.”

“And he found it?” Claquesous says incredulously.

“Barged straight in,” Jehan smiles.

“The faerie queen was pleased with him. They told him he could send the mortal back to his family, that he could take his place among their courtiers. But Bahorel laughed and told them he had not come to stay or to make any kind of exchange. He had come to take his brother and they would leave and go home, together.”

Montparnasse whistles between his teeth. “Since you’re telling this story I presume he did it.”

“Oh yes,” Jehan smiles. “They say that after returning home, he travelled the world with his brother for decades. But he was still mortal of course, and Bahorel isn’t.”

“So he’s still around,” Claquesous says.

“He must be,” Jehan nods. They glance at the window. The light is nowhere near fading yet, but it is getting late.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Montparnasse says, glancing at his watch.

Jehan gets to their feet and takes the empty cups and plates back to the counter. Doing so immediately puts more distance between them again. Just now they were almost talking like friends, now Jehan is in their professional persona again.

Montparnasse and Claquesous pay for their drinks and Jehan silently puts their money in the till.

“Thank you,” Claquesous says, rather abruptly. “It was good meeting you.”

“Likewise,” Jehan says with a smile.

When they walk to the door, they can’t resist walking with them. Under the pretence of locking up behind them of course. Claquesous steps outside, but Montparnasse suddenly holds still. He turns around and Jehan wishes he hadn’t walked so close behind him.

“I’m sorry about the stealing,” Montparnasse says.

Jehan’s face softens. “You already apologised.”

“I mean the second time,” he explains. “If it made you uncomfortable…I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not,” Jehan smiles. “But no harm done.”

Montparnasse flashes them a grin and makes the same almost-bowing movement as last time. Then he spins around elegantly and follows his friend.

Jehan follows, gently pulling the door closed behind them and leans against it, watching them go. This went really well, they think. They saw Montparnasse again, they met his friend and he turned out to be part Fae. It was exciting, but they did well. No blushing or babbling and no broken contracts. Maybe they’re getting the hang of this. Then Montparnasse looks back at them and gives a little flounce of his shoulders. Jehan feels a grin tugging at the corners of their mouth. They start to turn away, but just before they step back inside their eye falls on the sprout beside the door. It’s not a sprout anymore. It’s a sapling that is growing well past their knee.

“Well…” Jehan splutters. “That’s…” Their face blanches. Now that the plant is stronger they can feel the magical aura around it. That sprout didn’t break through the soil on its own. Jehan _made_ it. They must have. They didn’t mean to but they did. Trembling, Jehan reaches out and lifts a leaf. The shape is almost familiar… Jehan’s face turns bright red and they abruptly let go of the green twig. They hardly know where to look. Never in their life have they been this mortified. Of all the plants from all the corners of the earth, it had to be a wisteria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks are due to my sister who dreamt up Tholomyès curse and Bahorel’s backstory and who happens to know about the language of flowers...
> 
> [Wisteria: Welcome fair stranger / Affections expressed after a first meeting.]


	7. In which a dance is danced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to Adrian who proofread this for me, this being my first time writing a trans character and all.

Never before has Jehan cursed their green thumb, but they do now. Because the wisteria keeps growing. Insult to injury whenever Montparnasse drops by – for increasingly elaborate and sugary drinks – it grows worryingly fast. And Jehan _does_ worry about it. When they remember to, which is not that often actually. They do feel guilty about it, but they just can’t bring themself to be indifferent to Montparnasse. Every time he strolls through the door their lips smile on their own accord. It’s all they can do to keep from laughing out loud at his stories. Because ever since he came by with his friend Montparnasse seems to have a new story to tell for every visit. He talks about his friends a lot, his friends who all have chosen names for seemingly no other reason than it being cool. There are stories about Brujon, who is apparently eternally lucky. Gueulemer, who seems very superstitious. And Babet, who sounds like he gets fed up with the others a lot. Montparnasse’s stories about Claquesous are the best though, maybe because they usually feature himself most heavily. Jehan can’t even pretend not to look forward to them, so eventually they just give up and ask outright. Montparnasse starts making it a habit to lean against the counter instead of taking a seat, pausing his chatting with slight annoyance whenever Jehan needs to serve a customer. He never tries to steal anything again, but he keeps pretending he will. It feels almost like a private joke and Jehan loves it. Way more than they are willing to admit.

♣

The trick to talking to Jehan, Montparnasse has found, is to do it while they can pretend to be doing something else. The perfect conditions are to have at least a few customers chatting loudly in a corner of the café and to let Jehan be at least nominally employed in cleaning or fixing something. Because that way he can talk to them without them having to obviously fix all their attention on him. It also means he can take them by surprise every now and again and make them blush or laugh. The blushes are a delight, but the laughter is a prize. Montparnasse is certain Jehan tries very hard not to laugh out loud. He can’t imagine why, but it adds a challenge to an exercise that is already pure indulgent pleasure so he’s not about to complain.

On the whole he’s pretty good at picking the right times to visit. Early Wednesday afternoons are off limits of course, Ponine and Cosette are both far too observant to have them around while he’s… Actually Montparnasse isn’t quite sure what he’s doing. Except having fun of course, lots of fun. And it’s not really in his nature to question his actions when they please him. In any case he’s sure it wouldn’t be as much fun with people that know him around. Luckily none of Jehan’s other regulars know him. Or so he thought.

One Friday when he arrives, however, there’s a tall blonde standing at the counter and talking to Jehan that he recognizes immediately. No one manages to look becoming dressed in damn primary colours except for Ange. The café is too small to avoid him and Montparnasse sure as hell isn’t leaving, so he marches up to the counter and tries to look indifferent. Ange is just turning around, carrying a tray with three hot cocoas, and their eyes meet. Montparnasse has to admit he looks good. Not as good as him of course, but much better than the last time they met. Of course that was in the practically compulsory support group they both begrudgingly attended at the gender clinic. Ange’s eyes widen in recognition. He looks about as unpleasantly surprised as Montparnasse felt just now. There is a second of awkwardness, during which Montparnasse is very aware of Jehan’s curious look and then Ange nods. Montparnasse nods back. _Returning_ an acknowledgement he can justify. Ange turns around and joins his friends. Montparnasse doesn’t know them, but they’re currently doing a bad job of trying to use the same chair.

“Bonjour,” Jehan says amusedly and Montparnasse turns towards them.

“Salut,” he says. “You’re looking extra lovely today.”

He’s rewarded with a slight blush, but Jehan retorts by asking innocently: “Friend of yours?”

Montparnasse glances at Ange, who has wisely sat down with his back to the counter. “Hardly,” he mutters. “Acquaintance.” He looks at Jehan. “They come here often?”

“Almost every Friday,” Jehan says.

“Good to know,” Montparnasse hums. He wonders if there are more regulars that he unfortunately happens to know.

“Does that mean you won’t come on Fridays anymore?” Jehan asks. As soon as the words leave their mouth their cheeks flush again and Montparnasse grins at them widely.

Ange is forgiven for invading his space. That caught look on Jehan’s face is more than worth it.

“So,” Jehan says, refusing to acknowledge their own embarrassment. “How do you want your coffee today?”

“Surprise me,” Montparnasse smiles teasingly, leaning on the counter. “By now you should have a pretty good idea of what I like…”

Nobody ever told him of a rule about not making faeries blush.

Jehan makes him a soya caramel five pump latte that somehow make his fingers tingle and he stays at the counter to drink it until four laughing women come in. One of them looks vaguely familiar and all of them look at him and Jehan with annoyingly delighted faces.

♣

Montparnasse teases them on purpose. Jehan knows this. By now they also know that he doesn’t do it to make them uncomfortable. Whenever he says something that might have that effect, his eyes are always fixed on them a little more intently. Especially when the conversation drifts towards the subject of magic.

“You had those beignets on sale since Monday,” Montparnasse points out one Thursday afternoon.

“Not _those_ beignets,” Jehan says proudly. Their pastries never fail to sell.

“It’s a fresh batch then?” Montparnasse asks.

“No,” Jehan says smilingly.

“How do you do that?” he frowns. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Jehan slants their head and gives him a meaningful look.

“You’re kidding…” Montparnasse says, lowering his voice. “You actually enchant your food?”

Jehan smirks a little, but doesn’t answer.

Montparnasse looks fascinated. “Can you do the same to my fridge at home?” he asks.

The thought of being invited to come back to Montparnasse’s house makes Jehan’s stomach swirl for a moment, but they quickly shake their head. “It’s nothing like that,” they say. “It’s because I made it.”

“Pity,” Montparnasse sighs, taking a sip of his mint cappuccino. “There’s never any milk at our house.”

Jehan stifles a laugh at his suffering expression. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I’m saying,” Montparnasse grimaces. “There’s never any usable milk. Unless Brujon wants some of course.” He rolls his eyes. “But otherwise the milk lasts a day at most before it goes bad.”

Despite their best efforts a snort escapes Jehan’s nose.

Montparnasse quirks an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Jehan struggles to keep their voice low. There is a plump woman with two small boys at a nearby table and she’s just close enough to overhear. “The milk goes bad?” they whisper, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Does that also happen when your friend Sous is out of the house?”

The puzzled expression on Montparnasse’s face is glorious to behold, but seeing his lips move in incredulous understanding is even better. “You are not seriously saying-” he begins.

“There’s no telling what type of Fae he has in him,” Jehan giggles. “But judging from his magic there’s a pretty good chance his sorcery is…witchy.” Humans call all active magic sorcery, which is a gross generalisation. One faerie is not like the other, it’s the same with mortal magic users.

“Just like Sous,” Montparnasse grumbles. “He doesn’t even like milk.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t do it on purpose,” Jehan says. “Some magic just happens.” They purposely do not glance towards the door, where the wisteria has started to wind its way past the window and above the door.

♣

It’s been a slow day and Jehan is taking the opportunity to get a head start with tidying the kitchen. Baking is messy business and not all the magic in the world could change that. Just as they wipe their flour covered hands on a cloth, they feel someone enter the café. They usually hear the door first, but they’re certain someone just entered.

“I’ll be right with you!” they call out, but there is flour on their arms still and they’re pretty sure there is a smear of cocoa powder somewhere on their face. They hastily clean themself off, spin round on their heels and start.

Montparnasse is standing in the kitchen doorway, holding onto the doorpost overhead.

“Hi,” he grins.

“Hi,” Jehan says, forcing the jitters in their chest down.

“Don’t let me rush you,” Montparnasse says pleasantly. His grin sparks in his eyes. “You have chocolate near your left ear.”

“Cocoa,” Jehan corrects, but they do nothing to fix it. Instead, they shift their weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and says: “Are you coming in or not?”

“Oh,” Montparnasse says, an uncharacteristic flicker of uncertainty dancing across his face. He lets go of the doorpost and lowers his arms, but doesn’t step inside. “I didn’t want to you know…presume.”

“Yes,” Jehan says tensely. “I appreciate that, but-” Montparnasse is still not moving and in an impulse they reach out and pull him inside on the sleeve of his jacket. “-you shouldn’t linger in doorways.”

“Ok,” Montparnasse says, smiling as he follows Jehan further into the kitchen. “Sorry.” He glances around curiously and Jehan suddenly feels a little self-conscious.

Instead of showing it, however, they lift their chin challengingly. This is their domain, even more so than the café. This is where they create. “Now you’re here,” they say brightly. “You can help me clean up.”

Montparnasse looks down at his dark clothes, glances at the floury counter and grimaces.

Jehan swallows a laugh and says: “Or I could go make you a hot chocolate with hazelnut and sprinkles.”

“No,” Montparnasse says, almost defensively. “I’ll help.” He takes off his fine linen jacket and hangs it up by Jehan’s spare aprons.

It looks odd among the pastel colours and looking at it makes the jitters in Jehan’s chest come back. Outside the wisteria is growing more lush and green every day, but they try not to think about that now. “You could help me put these way?” they suggest, nodding at the recently cleaned kitchen utensils.

Montparnasse nods and puts away whatever Jehan points at in whatever spot they tell him to. Until he lays eyes on the knife block. “Ceramic knives?” he says curiously, pulling one out. “And here I thought you’d be a traditionalist.”

Jehan smiles faintly, but doesn’t answer. Even if most knives are made of stainless steel nowadays, but steel is still iron at its core and iron… Iron is the nail driven into ancient trees, iron is the horseshoe that rips through green moss, iron is the spade that digs into grassy mounds. Iron is never wielded by faerie hands. “They come in nice colours,” they say vaguely.

“They do,” Montparnasse chuckles. “They also come in black. I have a similar set.”

“You’re not a traditionalist?” Jehan asks, relaxing slightly.

“Oh I am,” he smirks. “But sometimes you just need something that doesn’t set off a metal detector.”

Jehan is startled into a genuine laugh and Montparnasse grins. “You’re terrible,” they laugh. “I can’t even tell if you’re joking.”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer that, instead he leans elegantly against the nearest work surface with a pleased look on his face and asks: “Why don’t you laugh more often? You have a lovely laugh, Jehan.”

“Maybe I save it so it doesn’t spoil,” they answer playfully. It is _so_ hard not to be playful… No one but Montparnasse has ever said their name like that. They turn towards him and smile. There’s flour on his sleeve. Almost without meaning to they reach out to brush it off.

There’s a burst of noise from the café as the door opens and cheerful voices announce the arrival of customers. Jehan snatches back their hand with a mix of resentment and relief they’ve  never felt before. “Not everyone is as quiet as you,” they say, smiling away their frustration and they hurry out of the kitchen.

Montparnasse follows them and sits down at a table while they serve the customers. As soon as they’ve sat down, a new group comes in. Jehan glances at Montparnasse, who somehow manages to lounge in one of the rather narrow chairs matching the little tables. He hasn’t got anything to drink or eat an Jehan gives him an apologetic look. Montparnasse shakes his head in dismissal and suddenly he grins and gestures towards his left ear. Jehan frowns slightly and brushes their fingers past their temple. There’s cocoa powder on their hand.

♣

“You would say, wouldn’t you,” Montparnasse asks one Monday afternoon, “if you didn’t want me to keep coming when you’re about to close.”

“I would,” Jehan says. “And I don’t mind at all.” They appreciate the question though. They appreciate a lot of things about him.

Montparnasse grins and goes back to fiddling with the radio. It’s pretty old and usually not turned on. The acoustics in the café are not great and if there’s several people talking already music would make it far too noisy. There is no one else here now though.

“Is it working?” Jehan asks cheerfully, taking off their apron.

“Mm,” Montparnasse hums. The speakers give a soft crack and music fills the café. “There,” he says smugly.

Jehan smiles. “Strauss?” he asks.

“What?” he demands. “A thief can’t have culture?”

“No need to get defensive,” Jehan grins. “I like classical music.”

“You know what I like?” Montparnasse says, stepping towards them. “Dancing.”

“Do you,” Jehan hums, leaning against the counter. “Then why don’t you dance something?” Montparnasse always moves so gracefully, seeing him dance must be…something.

With a bright spark of his green eyes Montparnasse straightens up. Then he bows to Jehan and holds out his hand.

Jehan stares at it and then up at Montparnasse’s face. “What are you doing?” they ask.

“I’m not dancing alone,” Montparnasse smirks.

Their eyes widen. He’s not seriously asking them to dance? Now? Here? In their own café? They shake their head.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “Dance with me.” He’s even wearing a white dress shirt and suspenders today. Did he plan this?

“No,” Jehan insists. Their hands are gripping the counter behind them. They cannot dance with Montparnasse. They want to. Oh, they _really_ want to. But they _can’t_. The age of faerie rings might be in the past, but some things will never fade.

“Why not?” Montparnasse says sulkily.

Jehan is at a loss for words. He can’t be serious. His friend is a sorcerer for goodness sake. “ _Because_ ,” they say.

Montparnasse’s eyes twinkle. “Is it because you can't dance?”

He did _not_ just say that. Jehan’s face contorts with indignation and Montparnasse laughs at them. He _laughs_. “Fine,” Jehan huffs. “Do _you_ know how to waltz?”

“Come here and find out,” Montparnasse grins and he extends his hand again.

Jehan grabs it and their skin feels electric all of a sudden. Montparnasse moves confidently, but he places his hand too low on their back. Montparnasse can waltz. Barely. Jehan lets him lead, they barely dare to move their feet, but Montparnasse clearly hasn’t been taught how to waltz properly. Jehan shuffles their feet awkwardly in time with Montparnasse’s movements and wonder what they’ve done to deserve this. This is _torture_. Montparnasse would be so gorgeous right now if he actually moved right.

“Would you relax?” Montparnasse laughs softly, completely misinterpreting Jehan’s stiffness.

“Mmf,” Jehan grumbles. Why did he have to make this so difficult? And why did this have to be a long piece of music?

“Look at me,” Montparnasse mutters, his mouth suddenly dangerously close to Jehan’s ear. “I've found a fairy that can't dance.”

Something deep in Jehan’s chest snaps with a bright spark and the next moment they step out of their shoes. It’s done before they think about it and once their bare feet hit the floor there is no longer anything to think about. They drop Montparnasse’s right hand and grab the other, wrapping their now free arm firmly around his waist. Suddenly Montparnasse isn’t leading anymore and they are both moving very fast. They’re whirling, sweeping across the floor. _This_ is waltzing. _Now_ Montparnasse is moving beautifully. His eyes are widened in shock and wonder and Jehan holds him flush against them in their arms and never wants to stop moving.

With a nasty clang they crash into one of the little tables and the vase with pink clarkia’s standing on top of it tips over. Jehan lets out a cry of dismay and Montparnasse swears. They both jump back, but most of the water in it still ends up spilling on Montparnasse. The music’s still going, but the dance is over.

“I’m not sorry,” Jehan pants, head still spinning. They really aren’t. That was bloody gorgeous and they’ll never ever be sorry.

“Neither am I,” Montparnasse chuckles. “Damn you _can_ dance. Definitely worth ruining a shirt over.”

“Oh,” Jehan says, realising Montparnasse’s dress shirt is actually pretty much soaked. “Um, I am sorry about that. I can- Wait, are you bleeding?!” There’s a stab of panic in their mind as they see the red shimmer through the white fabric.

“What?” Montparnasse says distractedly. “No! Look-” He flicks open the top buttons of his wet shirt, revealing red roses and black thorns tattooed on his skin.

“Oh,” Jehan sighs, relaxing slightly. “Sorry. I thought…never mind.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Montparnasse says. Then he makes a disgusted noise and takes his shirt off altogether. “Well,” he grunts. “At least it’s only water.” He carefully drapes the wet shirt over a nearby chair.

“Right,” Jehan says, collecting themself and they quickly fetch a dishtowel from behind the counter.

“Thanks,” Montparnasse says and he takes it.

Jehan tries their best not to, but it’s really hard not to look. Most of Montparnasse’s chest is covered in briars and roses, but there’s also two symmetrical scars. It’s not the first thing Jehan looks at, what with Montparnasse’s slender waist and near flawless pale skin, but they do see it. For a moment they’re confused and then they understand. At least they think they do. The tattoo doesn’t seem to be there to hide the scars, apart from the occasional petal or stalk it does not even cover them. To Jehan it seems rather a reminder that although a body always has a beauty of its own, it is also possible to craft it towards beauty. They look away, hoping that their gaze had looked admiring rather than gawking.

Apparently it had, because the smile on Montparnasse’s lips, that had wavered for a moment, turns into a smirk again. “Well, now you know where I got my chosen name,” he says.

“And here I thought it was just because you’re dramatic,” Jehan teases, but they keep a close eye on Montparnasse’s face.

To their relief he gives them an extra dramatic grimace and says: “I resent that. How dare you.”

Jehan relaxes a little and suddenly they remember something. “Is that how you know Ange?” they ask cautiously.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse admits, but then his expression tenses slightly. “How do you-”

“He wears buttons sometimes,” Jehan explains, a tad hastily. They don’t know what Montparnasse is thinking, but they don’t want him to assume that they could tell that about a person just by looking at them or that they would want to if they could. Because they can’t and they’re glad of it. It’s really none of their business.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “Sounds like something he would do,” he says.

Jehan bites their lip and turns their attention to the soaked shirt hanging over the chair. Montparnasse is so particular about his clothes too… “I don’t have a drier,” they say regretfully.

“Can’t you magic it dry?” Montparnasse says.

“No,” Jehan sputters, but when they look up they see Montparnasse is only teasing. They roll their eyes and smile. After the array of uncomfortable feelings of this afternoon they feel oddly at ease right now. Besides, Montparnasse doesn’t look awkward and he’s the one half undressed by unfortunate circumstances. “Come on,” Jehan says. “I can get you something else to wear.”

They turn towards the kitchen and Montparnasse follows in silence. The backdoor to the kitchen leads to the stairwell and that leads, among other things, up to Jehan’s little apartment. It feels very strange to hear a second set of footsteps behind them on the stairs and even stranger to know that they belong to Montparnasse. It’s also strange to be so silent, so Jehan says:

“I was so happy this place came with an apartment. I really wanted to live where I work.”

“Convenient,” Montparnasse agrees.

Jehan looks back and sees he’s still holding the dishtowel. He also looks...impressive, moving behind him on the dimly lit staircase. They quickly look ahead again. “Is there a reason you chose roses?” they ask.

“Mm,” Montparnasse hums. “Black and red, blooms and thorns, don’t think I thought about it a lot deeper than that.”

“It suits you,” Jehan says honestly.’

“Thank you,” Montparnasse answers and they can hear the grin in his voice.

Jehan opens the door to their apartment quickly and steps inside before they can feel self-conscious about it. Montparnasse follows them inside and looks around curiously.

“Close the door behind you please,” Jehan requests.

“Nice place,” Montparnasse says, closing the door.

“Thank you,” they smile. “Let me just-” They dart into their bedroom and quickly look through their closet. Montparnasse is taller than they are, but not too much. Still, most of their clothes make them snort when they think of him wearing them. When Jehan is working they tend to wear simple clothes. When they’re not their taste generally goes towards the flowy and fluttery variety. Not quite Montparnasse’s style. Finally they grab a long, beige sweater. That will have to do. “Here you go,” they say, turning back into the main room.

Montparnasse is standing by their bookcase, which has ivy cascading down one side. He turns around. “Thanks,” he grins, taking the sweater. He doesn’t put it on though, instead he weighs it in his hands, feeling the fabric. His eyes are twinkling. “Will I be able to leave if I put this on?”

“If you plan on giving it back you will,” Jehan snorts, pulling a face.

“Oh, I’ll be giving it back,” Montparnasse says darkly, glancing at the knitted cotton.

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?” Jehan protests, pretending to be affronted.

“You know what it means,” he says.

“You come into my house, knock over my vases and insult my clothes,” Jehan cries, throwing up their hands. “I am appalled.”

“Technically you danced me into your vase,” Montparnasse grins. His eyes rest on Jehan’s and his expression grows a little less teasing for a moment. “You’re an amazing dancer,” he says.

“I’m a _faerie_ ,” Jehan smiles smugly. “Now come on, we left the music on downstairs.”

Montparnasse pulls the sweater over his head and Jehan laughs softly. It looks odd on him, but at least it fits him. They go back downstairs, where Montparnasse collects his shirt and Jehan turns off the radio.

“Do you want a bag to put that in?” they ask.

“It’ll wrinkle,” Montparnasse says distastefully.

Jehan smiles at the thought of Montparnasse carrying that wet shirt all the way home, however far away that may be, but they shrug. “Suit yourself.”

“I always do,” Montparnasse smirks and he moves towards the door. “See you later…”

“Thursday?” Jehan ask, without thinking about it.

He looks back with a grin. “Suits me.”

Jehan smiles and locks the door behind him. When Montparnasse is out of sight they go back upstairs, humming to themself. They feel so light… They should dance more, they hadn’t really danced in ages. Upstairs, in their tiny kitchen, they make themself a simple dinner and talk to their plants. The softness of early evening wraps around them and they really haven’t felt this utterly happy in a long time. After dinner they put on some music of their own and stretch out on their bed. It’s a bit of a guilty pleasure, but Jehan loves human music about faeries. They have an entire playlist.

Closing their eyes for a moment Jehan lies on their bed, thinking of red roses blooming on pale skin… Their mind is filled with a lovely, soft warmth. Montparnasse will visit again on Thursday. With a contented sigh they let their mind wander and suddenly the words of one of the songs come trickling through.

_“The faeries would not answer her, the stones were dark and slept, a babe was all she’d asked for, their promise they had kept…”_

Jehan opens their eyes. Their face falls. Treacherous, deceitful faeries… The songs the humans sing about their kind are split right through the middle. Half of them are about how beautiful the Fae folk are, the other half are meant as a warning. Or perhaps both kinds are meant as a warning. The warm feeling is gone. Jehan sits up and they suddenly feel a little unsteady. They _danced_ with Montparnasse.  What the hell had they been thinking? Well, they hadn’t been thinking actually. Nervously Jehan gets to their feet and looks around the room for something like reassurance. They liked spending time with Montparnasse. And he wouldn’t keep coming back if he didn’t like them, right? They were friends. Or at least they’d like to think so. Except…what if- No. Jehan steadies themself and takes a deep breath. And another. And a-

A sweet smell fills Jehan’s nose. For a moment it’s kind and calming and then it makes his stomach churn. Eyes wide they dart to the window and look out. Down below, above the café window, the wisteria has burst into bloom. The blue tinged purple flowers hang in thick, gorgeous clusters, but they make Jehan sick. They didn’t mean to do that. So how can they be sure they didn’t do anything else? What if Montparnasse only likes them because they made him? What if they’re not making friends, but doing the exact same thing they have been trying to avoid from the first moment they met him?

Jehan stands very still for a moment and then they grab their coat and run out the door. They need to go see Feuilly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Catherine, who pointed out that Jehan would be mindful of open passages.
> 
> In case any of you are feeling musical. The waltz they danced to is [“An Die Schöne Blaue Donau”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7SZN8Ds7a2g&ab_channel=Fledermaus1990) by Johann Strauss II, which has a very convenient intro that can be argued through. (My dancing sister informs me this waltz has the best twirling bits, so I am sure Jehan would like it too.)  
> And the changeling song Jehan is listening to is one of my favourites by [Heather Dale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqOqEU1xwxI&ab_channel=TheaterRaven). 
> 
> I am still fussing over the pacing of the next chapter, but my guess right now is that there will be two more chapters and an epilogue. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and to everyone that left kudo’s: they are a burst of joy ^_^


	8. In which counsel is given

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains rather a lot of tense conversation, but all for a good cause I promise.

Montparnasse makes his way home with almost complete inattention to his surroundings. In his head the music is still playing. Whenever there is no one near enough to hear, he softly sings parts of the melody. Passing by a trellis garden he steals a rose that catches his eye, but half a street later he throws it away. Jehan’s sweater, shapeless as it is, smells like wildflowers. It smells like them. The rose cannot compare. Montparnasse grins. He can still feel Jehan’s hand on his back, their breath against his cheek. He swings the wet shirt, two fingers hooked behind the collar. This is definitely worth repeating. Next time he’ll check for vases beforehand though.

Most of the people on the metro that have the gall to stare at him receive a contemptuous glare, but he’s honestly not even trying that hard. Not even his own contempt can bring him down from this high. Montparnasse is still mostly lost in pleasant thoughts when he enters the house, but he does see a very familiar female shape that flees into Brujon’s room as soon as he walks into the hallway. Half a moment later Brujon darts out of living room, looking both proud and sheepish. Montparnasse represses a smirk and gives a commanding movement with his head towards the door.

“I didn’t see anything,” he says.

Brujon flashes him a wide grin and swings into his room, slamming the door behind him to the sound of nervous but delighted giggles.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. Princess can generally look after herself and Brujon knows how not to be a jerk, so it’s probably fine. He trots up the stairs to the laundry room.

The door to Claquesous’ room opens and he looks out. “Is Gueul home yet?” he asks.

“Don’t know,” Montparnasse says. “Just got home myself.”

Claquesous open his mouth to reply, but seems to forget what he was going to say halfway to forming the words. He frowns. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Montparnasse glances down. The beige looks terrible with his complexion. “It’s Jehan’s,” he explains. “I needed something to wear, so-”

Claquesous stares at him with shocked eyes.

Montparnasse grimaces. “I spilled water on my shirt, Sous. It wasn’t anything like _that_.” He scoffs. “I wish.”

Claquesous, who seemed to relax a little during the first sentence, tenses up again at the last. “What do you mean you wish?” he almost snaps.

“What do you think I mean?” Montparnasse grouses back, stepping into the laundry room and gathering other whites that need to be washed. To his annoyance Claquesous follows him, still with that tense expression on his face. “They’re nice,” he says. “And pretty. And fun to flirt with.”

“And a faerie,” Claquesous cut in tensely.

“So?” Montparnasse shrugs.

His friend looks incredulous. “So… _don’t_ flirt with faeries!”

“I don’t see why not,” Montparnasse scoffs. “They don’t seem to mind. Although I’m not sure they really do that sort of stuff themself,” he muses. “They fluster so easily…” Involuntarily a faint smirk twitches onto his lips.

Claquesous stares at him in dismay.

“ _What_?” Montparnasse bites.

“You go over there a lot,” he says, slowly.

Montparnasse slams the door of the washing machine. “So, what’s it to you?”

“That depends on why you go, doesn’t it?” Claquesous snaps.

“Because I feel like it,” Montparnasse says.

“ _Why_ do you feel like it?” Claquesous presses. He is standing in the doorway, effectively blocking the way.

“You have met Jehan, right?” Montparnasse says sarcastically. Like they’re not the most amazing person to be around. Seriously, _what_ is Claquesous’ problem?

 “Yeah,” Claquesous scowls, “and I’m not running over there twice a week.”

“Obviously I have better taste than you,” Montparnasse snarks.

Claquesous tensely pushes his hair out of his face and folds his hands behind his neck. “Parnasse...they’re a _faerie_.” His dark eyes fix on Montparnasse. “How do you know they haven’t glamoured you?”

Montparnasse stares back at him. He can’t be serious. “I’ve know them for _months_ ,” he says indignantly. Montparnasse glares. “We’re…friends.” He pointedly turns away from Claquesous and selects a program on the washing machine. He’s the only one that knows how to use it properly.

“Friends,” Claquesous repeats. It sounds hollow. “And that’s why you have to go back there every week. You’re sure about that?”

Montparnasse turns around and looks at him. Claquesous face is full of suspicion, but there’s also a lot of concern. “I go back there because I _want_ to,” he says. “You’re not seriously suggesting Jehan is using magic to control me?”

“They might,” Claquesous says tensely.

“They wouldn’t,” Montparnasse says firmly. “I’d know.”

“No, you _wouldn’t_ know,” Claquesous contradicts. “ _I_ probably wouldn’t even know.”

“Oh, you’re being humble now?” Montparnasse snarks. “You must be serious then.”

“Parnasse-” Claquesous hisses.

“Look, Jehan isn’t trying anything,” Montparnasse says impatiently. “They hardly even flirt back.” That came out remarkably bitter.

“Parnasse they don’t have to flirt back, they’re a faerie,” Claquesous says in frustration. “You’re in there every week, eating their food, listening to them talk.”

“So are dozens of other people,” Montparnasse retorts.

“No they’re not,” Claquesous points out. “Not like you are.”

Montparnasse gives an angry shrug with his shoulders. “I’m done talking about this.” He pushes past Claquesous and steps into the hallway.

“How did you spill water on your shirt?” Claquesous demands to know, following him immediately.

“Knocked over a vase,” Montparnasse replies with as much indifference as he can muster.

“ _How_?” Claquesous repeats.

“Danced into a table,” he says defiantly.

“You agreed to _dance_ with them?!” Claquesous cries. “Are you _insane_?”

“ _I_ asked them to dance, Sous,” Montparnasse snaps. “Jehan never initiates anything.” There’s that bitterness again. “I may not know magic, but I know people.”

Claquesous doesn’t look the least bit convinced. His hands are fidgeting oddly.

Montparnasse softens just a little, he’s hardly ever seen his friend this nervous. “I can look out for myself, Sous,” he says. “Jehan wouldn’t put a spell on me. You should have seen their face when I accused them of that the first time.”

“Well…” Claquesous mutters.

Montparnasse lets out a curt laugh. “And as for trying to charm or control me, I don’t think they’re terribly interested. If they were they might have kissed me back by now.”

Claquesous chokes on thin air.

♣

Technically Feuilly does not live and work on the same address. The rooms behind his shop are where he has his leather workshop and his apartment is two blocks away. However, he often stays so late to finish his project that he frequently ends up sleeping there. When Jehan visits Feuilly they go by the workshop first and only if they do not feel his presence there do they go to his actual home address. Tonight is no different and sure enough, Feuilly is still at work in the back.

“Jehan?” he asks, surprised, when they’re almost at the door to the workshop.

“Yeah, it’s me,” they say and they step inside.

Feuilly gets up from his old sewing machine and gives them a smile that momentarily makes Jehan forget about the weight pressing on their shoulders.

“Why don’t I come see you more often,” they mutter, running up to him for a hug.

“Why don’t I come see _you_ more often,” Feuilly retorts, hugging them tight. When he lets go and looks into Jehan’s face, his smile falters. “Hey, is something wrong?”

“I…” Jehan steps back and bites their lip. The pressing weight is back. “I might have done something bad.”

“Okay,” Feuilly says, calmly but with obvious concern. “Do you want to talk about it now or over tea?”

“Tea sounds great,” Jehan says, trying not to let their smile wobble too much. They trail behind Feuilly and fidget around while he makes a pot of strong black tea. He takes it with sugar and even though he’s more than willing to keep a variety of herbal teas for Jehan, he has never liked a single one of them himself. So Jehan just drinks with him instead.

“So, what happened?” Feuilly ask when they’ve both sat down with a cup cradled in their hands.

Jehan doesn’t make eye contact, but stares at their cup instead. If they say it out loud it might actually be real. They _don’t_ want this to be real. “I…” They close their eyes. “That customer that found out I’m Fae, the one that gave me his name…he did come back.”

Feuilly doesn’t answer, but when Jehan looks up he is looking back at them expectantly.

“Um…it was a chosen name by the way,” they mutter. “You were right…he’s friends with a sorcerer. He brought him to the shop actually, he’s actually got some faerie blood as well…”

“So you made friends?” Feuilly asks. His expression is soft. “Jehan, that’s a _good_ thing.”

“Yes…” Jehan squeaks. “Except…” They trail off.

Feuilly puts his cup down and leans forward, frowning slightly. “Jehan, I’m…I’m sorry if I was overly concerned when you called me about him discovering you. I didn’t mean-” He sighs. “You’re young, ‘discovered’ meant something different not too long ago.” His expression softens into a smile. “If he came back and you met a friend of his and you’re having a good time I’m _happy_ for you. You keep to yourself too much. You deserve friends, Jehan.” He grimaces. “Friends that aren’t working all the time and forget to text you back until a day later.”

“You are the _best_ friend, Feuilly,” Jehan says and they mean it with all their soul. “But…Feuilly I’m worried I might have… I’ve never been friends with a mortal before.”

“It’s not that different,” he smiles, picking up his mug again. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Jehan shuts their mouth, but their eyes must betray something, because Feuilly’s expression changes. “Unless something else happened?” he says cautiously.

“I don’t know,” Jehan whispers. Their stomach is all twisted up in knots, but even now thinking about Montparnasse makes them feel better. How is that even possible? They have to force the next sentence past their lips. “Feuilly, what if he only likes me because I want him to like me?”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Feuilly says immediately. “You-”

“What if it’s the glamour?” Jehan interrupts him. “I never meant to use magic on him, but what if I did? By accident?” Their voice has become high and frantic and they have to make a real effort to sit still.

“Magic like that doesn’t just happen by accident,” Feuilly says reassuringly. “You would know if you had done something.”

Jehan swallows. That’s what they thought, but there is a damn cascade of blue flowers draped around their shop windows testifying to the contrary.

“Unless he’s suddenly acting differently than before,” Feuilly says, trying to look Jehan in their eyes while they are still doing their best to avoid his gaze. “I really don’t think you have to worry about it.”

Jehan considers this. Montparnasse doesn’t act different, not really. But Jehan has no way of knowing how he acted before he met them. Maybe Claquesous would have noticed if he was acting uncharacteristically…

“Why are you so anxious?” Feuilly asks gently.

“Because I don’t know if I did something!” Jehan says miserably. “And what if I _did_. How do I fix it?” They put their tea, which they haven’t taken a single sip from, aside for fear of spilling it. “I never used to worry about my magic…but…I bake health and happiness into the pastries…and sometimes I stir some goodness into the drinks.” They glance up at Feuilly.

“Jehan,” Feuilly says smilingly. “I sew good luck into every stitch of my bags.”

“You do?” Jehan says, taken by surprise.

“Yes,” Feuilly laughs. “We’re Fae, it’s what we do. And our magic isn’t dangerous if we don’t want it to be.”

That might be true for Feuilly’s magic… “You don’t use glamour though…” they mutter.

“Neither do you,” Feuilly says seriously. “Not really.”

“I told him a story,” Jehan mumbles. “Him and his friend.”

“Stories don’t count,” Feuilly says forgivingly. “Stories deserve a little glamour.”

No matter how warm and reassuring Feuilly is Jehan can’t get their heart to stop jittering. “He makes me laugh…” they mutter. “I can’t always _not_ laugh.”

“Jehan-” Feuilly begins, but Jehan can’t bear his trying to calm them down while he doesn’t even know what’s really going on and they blurt out:

“I wanted him to come back so badly! And then he did and I wanted him to keep coming back and he’s _so_ beautiful and he tells the most amazing stories and he makes me feel so lightheaded sometimes and he looks so happy every time I laugh and he wanted to dance with me and I didn’t say no and it was _so_ lovely and I’m not sorry but…but he kissed me that day that we met.”

As soon as they say that they wish they hadn’t. Feuilly is sitting very still, the knuckles of his right hand pressed against his lips.

“I didn’t kiss back,” Jehan whispers guiltily. “I think…”

Feuilly’s grey eyes meet his, but he still doesn’t say anything.

“I really didn’t mean to do anything, but what if I did? Feuilly, I care about him.”

“I can see that,” Feuilly says, lowering his hand. “And I still don’t think you did anything wrong.” His face is full of kindness.

“But what if-” Jehan begins.

“But if it will make you feel better I can come by the café when he’s there and check,” Feuilly interrupts.

Jehan brightens up. Feuilly will be able to see if there is glamour hanging around Montparnasse.

“I don’t suppose he has set days he stops by?” Feuilly hums and for a moment Jehan thinks he’s going to laugh.

“No,” they say. “But-” They cut themself off abruptly. If Feuilly comes to the café he will see the wisteria. He will see what Montparnasse’s mere presence made them do. They would die of embarrassment. Their cheeks are almost glowing at the mere thought. “I…um…I could suggest he comes here?” they say, trying to sound composed. “I mean, if he sees us together he might guess something’s off. Not that I told him about you!” he adds hastily.

Feuilly smiles. “I wouldn’t have minded much if you had,” he says. “But sure. If you think that’s better.”

Jehan breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay,” they say.

“You have to promise me something though,” Feuilly says seriously.

“Yeah?” Jehan says, biting their lip.

“Try not to freak yourself out any more than you already have. Even if you did something you couldn’t have done actual harm, that you would absolutely have noticed.”

Jehan takes a steadying breath. “Right, yes, ok.” They give Feuilly a nervous look. “And if I did do something. Do you think we can fix it?”

“If it has anything to do with magic we can fix it,” Feuilly says reassuringly. There seems to be an amused quirk in the corner of his mouth again, but before Jehan can be sure of its being there he says: “Now, while I’ve got you here. I need your opinion on some imitation leather.”

Jehan lights up. “Are you finally going to stop using real leather?” they gasp. They’ve been gently (and not so gently) bugging Feuilly about that for ages.

“I’m _considering_ it,” Feuilly grimaces. “But this bicast stuff just doesn’t feel right.”

“Let me have a look then,” Jehan says enthusiastically. “I’ll help you decide.”

“I’m sure you’ll be completely impartial,” Feuilly grins.

♣

In their household of five Claquesous is usually not the one giving lectures. Montparnasse knows how to shut Babet up. He doesn’t know how to deal with Claqeusous. And he will not shut up. He followed Montparnasse up to his room and looks about ready to start throwing things. Ironic, because Montparnasse is about ready to throw him out of his room.

“For fuck’s sake, Sous!” he bursts out. “Jehan would no more lay a spell on me than you would.”

“Well I’m fucking considering it!” Claquesous yells. “And has it crossed your stubborn mind they might have done it by accident?”

“Don’t insult them like that,” Montparnasse growls. “They _wouldn’t_. If you’d bothered to get to know them, you would know that.”

“Are you hearing yourself?!” Claquesous almost screams, but suddenly the door opens.

They must have made a lot of noise not to hear Gueulemer come upstairs. “What’s going on?” he asks.

Montparnasse’s eyes snap at Claquesous, but he immediately turns to Gueulemer and says:

“Parnasse is being a fucking moron, that’s what’s going on.”

“ _Sous_ ,” he growls in a low voice. Gueulemer is superstitious enough as it is.

Claquesous seems to make an effort to calm down a little. He’s usually very careful about not upsetting Gueulemer. But it’s not enough to make him drop it. “I think,” he says in a forcefully calm voice, “that Montparnasse’s faerie friend might have _accidentally_ glamoured them.”

Montparnasse feels a hot flash of anger. “Do _not_ call them that,” he barks.

The look he fixes Claquesous with is particularly vicious and his friend changes colour for a moment. Neither of them have told any of the others about Jehan’s suspicions about Claquesous’ family and although Montparnasse would never  breathe as much as a word in front of Gueulemer, he is burning with the urge to remind Claquesous what a hypocrite he’s being.

Claquesous shuts his mouth and swallows.

“Is that possible?” Gueulemer asks, brow furrowing anxiously.

“No,” Montparnasse says flatly. “It’s not.”

There is a tense silence. Gueulemer is shuffling his large feet uncomfortably and Claquesous is staring silently at a random spot on the wall. Montparnasse breathes in slowly. He’s still angry. Really angry.

“I don’t know a lot about faeries,” Gueulemer begins slowly. “Apart from that you’re not supposed to cross ‘em.”

Montparnasse glares at him, but Gueulemer looks back at him undisturbed.

“But if Sous is worried about you…” he says. He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

Claquesous refuses to look at either of them.

Montparnasse glances between his friends. They no longer count the times they get each other out of trouble. The patched wounds, false alibis, silent understandings. They just know they’ve got each other’s backs. There is no way in hell Jehan did anything to him. He knows that. He can _feel_ that…but they can’t.

“Okay,” he relents. “If you’re worried, check whatever you like.”

Claquesous turns towards him, taken by surprise. “Really?”

Gueulemer exhales and leans back against the doorpost.

“Sure,” Montparnasse shrugs. “It won’t matter, because _nothing’s wrong with me_. But whatever.”

“So,” Gueulemer says, almost sounding nervous. “Is there a way to detect faerie magic?”

“That’s another thing,” Claquesous sighs. “I don’t know…” He grimaces. “I can usually detect other people’s illusions, but that’s it. And I’m not sure faerie glamour technically is an illusion.” He makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “Chetta would be able to see.” It’s spoken with distaste, but also a vague semblance of respect.

“Ask her then,” Gueulemer says.

Claquesous grumbles something and glances at Montparnasse.

“Sure, why the hell not,” he says sarcastically. Still, he’d rather get this over with now. This crap needs to be put a stop to as soon as possible. “If she agrees to see me I’ll go.”

“No backing out last minute?” Claquesous asks suspiciously.

“Cross my heart,” Montparnasse says, and then he lets his face relax into his most obnoxious grin. “I’ll cooperate with anything that means you having to grovel to Chetta.”

The relieved look on Claquesous’ face instantly makes way for one of disgust and Montparnasse laughs so hard that Gueulemer joins in.

♣

Jehan sleeps over at Feuilly’s that night, which is probably the only reason he actually goes home this time. They’ll have to get up early to be in time to open the café, but they really don’t feel like being alone right now. While Feuilly is present, it is very hard to be anxious. Most of all they hold on to his belief that even if they did use magic on Montparnasse, it couldn’t have been harmful. As long as they didn’t harm him everything will be fine.

They lie stretched out on his sofa, wrapped in an old quilt, while Feuilly rummages around the room getting ready for bed himself. He’s humming absentmindedly and for a moment Jehan’s mind drifts away on the melody. In an instant they are dancing again, wrapping their arms around Montparnasse again.

“Jehan?”

“Yeah?” they start up from their tangled thoughts. Their cheeks are burning.

“Only saying goodnight,” Feuilly smiles.

“Oh, right,” Jehan smiles awkwardly. “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” Feuilly hums and he softly closes his bedroom door behind him.

Jehan sinks deeper into their pillows and stares at the ceiling. Sweet dreams… They know what they’ll be dreaming of. A swirl of anxiety and a burst of giddy happiness clash in their insides and twist into a knot of contradictions. Breathing deeply they try to calm themself. If Feuilly isn’t worried…they shouldn’t be worried. Feuilly likes humans. Feuilly makes friends with humans. Feuilly says it’s fine to be close to humans. Jitters dance through their chest and Jehan pulls the pillow over their face. They aren’t Feuilly. And Feuilly isn’t in love.

They’ve thought it before they can stop themself and they are also too late to catch it. The escaped thought runs rampant through their mind and the knot of contradictions twists into an incomprehensible mess. Because Jehan has never been in love before and they don’t know why or how or when this happened, but they suddenly know with startling certainty that they are utterly and completely in love with Montparnasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> (Are you ready to meet Chetta? I know I am!)


	9. In which a truth is spoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! 
> 
> And it wouldn't have been nearly as good without the help of my awesome sister/beta/co-creator of this au. Love you sis!

It’s Thursday, Claquesous is out doing whatever he does when he disappears and everyone else is recovering from the rather stressful activities of last night. In short, the house is uncharacteristically quiet. Montparnasse grabs his keys and glances in the mirror in the hallway. He looks tired too. Having to lay in wait for two hours because someone decided to change the security schedule will do that to you.

“Where are you going?” Babet’s voice suddenly sounds behind him.

Damn, Montparnasse thought he was still asleep. “Just going out for some fresh air and exercise, _mom_ ,” he snarks. “I promise I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

Babet clicks his tongue. “Going to see your friend at the café?” he asks, giving him an appraising look.

“Yes,” Montparnasse replies defiantly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Sous says you shouldn’t go,” Babet informs him.

“Sous can shove it,” Montparnasse says. It’s been two days and all he’s done is whine about how asking Chetta for a favour is humiliating.

“Suit yourself,” Babet shrugs, with uncharacteristic indifference. “I’m too tired to stop your overdressed ass.”

Before Montparnasse can reply Gueulemer appears. He looks like he just woke up. “Afternoon,” he grunts.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Babet says conversationally. “Parnasse is off to his favourite café again.”

Montparnasse glares at him.

“Don’t do that,” Gueulemer protests. “You told Sous-”

“I promised Jehan I’d be there Thursday,” Montparnasse snaps. “I’m not going to break a promise because you guys are being ridiculous.” He puts his keys in his pockets and feels something cold brush against his finger fingers. What the- He takes his keys out again and digs into his pocket. He stares at the iron nails in his hand. “What the hell is this?” he demands.

Babet sighs and turns his gaze upwards.

Gueulemer looks guilty.

“Gueul,” Montparnasse growls. “You did _not_ try to slip iron into my pockets.”

He crosses his arms defensively.

“For fuck’s sake, Gueul!” Montparnasse snaps. “What do you think my keys are made of?” He has no idea if this faeries can’t touch iron stuff is true, but even if it isn’t, Jehan only has to see him carrying crap like this and they’ll think that he doesn’t trust them.

“Steel,” Gueulemer answers defiantly. His shoulders are hunched, but the frown on his face has something determined.

“That’s still iron,” Montparnasse bites. Suddenly he remembers Jehan’s ceramic knives and an actual flash of anxiety passes through him. “Gueul, I swear, if you hid anything else in my clothes and you don’t tell me now-”

They stare at each other. Gueulemer flinches. He rarely has to stand up to Montparnasse directly and Claquesous isn’t here to back him up. “Put a coin under the sole of your left shoe,” he mutters.

Montparnasse swears and takes off his shoe. “When Sous finally gets over himself and I’ve seen Chetta,” he growls. “You are _all_ coming with me to meet Jehan.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Babet says, still painfully unimpressed.

Montparnasse huffs and puts his shoe back on. He angrily tosses the coin to Gueulemer, who only just manages to catch it. “I’m going out,” Montparnasse says, but he turns back to look at Gueulemer. “And you better check your shoes every day for the coming month because I will get you back for this.”

He slams the door, but not before he’s seen the look of relief on Gueulemer’s face. If he _hadn’t_ threatened revenge that would have been a sign he was actually going to hold this against him and he’s not _that_ pissed. Gueulemer wouldn’t know subtlety if you hit it over the head with it, but he means well.

By the time he arrives at the café Montparnasse is all grins and cheerful anticipation, but to his surprise Jehan looks rather out of spirits. There’s something nervous about the way they glance up when he enters.

“Hey,” he says, walking up to the counter.

“Hi,” Jehan mutters, not sounding like their usual cheerful self at all.

Montparnasse swallows the “what’s wrong” stirring inside him and leans on the counter. “Am I safe from blonde political activists today?” he asks in a stage whisper.

A smile flickers across Jehan’s face. “I think so,” they say and their eyes meet his. The uneasy expression gives way to one of slight concern.

Montparnasse grimaces. “Not looking my best aren’t I?” he sighs. “Let’s just say last night didn’t exactly go as planned.”

“I didn’t sleep a lot myself,” Jehan confesses.

“Oh?” Montparnasse hums. “Were you also lying on a roof waiting for a damn security guard to piss off?”

Jehan’s cheeks dimple. “No,” he chuckles.

Montparnasse grins. “Good, cause I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Jehan shakes their head laughingly. They look better than they did a moment ago already. “Shall I make you a hot chocolate?” he asks. “They’re great against tiredness.”

“Please,” Montparnasse sighs. “One with the hazelnut stuff?”

“Sure,” Jehan grins.

He glances around. There aren’t any other customers. “Have one yourself too?” he tries.

Jehan hums and grabs another cup. “Yeah…I think I will,” they say.

A little while later they’re both sitting at one of the tiny tables with a cup of hot chocolate. Montparnasse tells a slightly censored version of last night’s exploits in an attempt to make Jehan laugh again. Since Jehan does laugh and even allows themself to keep laughing, Montparnasse is more than a little resentful when a couple of new customers come in. They only want things to go though, and as soon as they’re gone Jehan joins him again.

“Hey,” they say suddenly. “Last time you said your friend Babet has a birthday coming up, right?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse hums. They all like to make a big deal of Babet’s birthdays since he’s the eldest and they get to pretend he’s becoming an old man. He’ll be turning twenty seven this year, which _definitely_ makes him an old man.

“Are you still looking for a present?” Jehan asks, slanting their head.

“Yes,” he says. “Why, you have suggestion?”

“Well,” they say, suddenly looking a little uncertain. “You said he reads a lot, right? I have a friend that makes really nice attaché bags and book bags and stuff. If that’s something he’d like…”

“He would actually,” Montparnasse says, interested. “Do they have a website?”

“No,” Jehan says. “But I think I have-” They pull a phone from their pocket and scroll through the pictures.

Montparnasse doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he has never seen Jehan with a phone before.

“This is one of his,” they say, holding the phone out to him.

Montparnasse whistles admiringly between his teeth. That is gorgeous and looks completely handcrafted. Babet would love something like that. And another thing- “That’s awesome,” he grins. “Could you send that to me? And the address of the shop?”

“Yeah!” Jehan beams and then their face flushes with confusion. “Um…maybe you could…send it to yourself?”

“Sure,” Montparnasse nods. “Or I could just put my number in your phone.”

“Or…that, yeah,” Jehan says, suddenly very interested in their empty cup.

With a grin on his face Montparnasse adds himself to Jehan’s contacts and hands the phone back.

“He has a small shop not too far from here,” they say, typing out the address with cheeks that are still a shade pinker than usual. “He’s usually open pretty late.”

“Will he give me a good deal if I tell him you sent me?” Montparnasse asks teasingly, taking out his own phone to save Jehan’s number.

“Maybe,” Jehan smiles. They put their phone away and sit back. “You never said…did you guys get what you came for, last night?”

Montparnasse looks at him with a mock indignant expression. “I am _hurt_ , Jehan. I didn’t lie on a roof for two hours to go home empty handed.”

Jehan bites their lip, eyes twinkling. “Oh excuse me, didn’t mean to offend,” they grin. “So what was it?”

Having Jehan’s curiosity is a treat. Montparnasse folds his hands behind his head and leans back. “Now you’re asking for incriminating details,” he tuts.

“Just tell me what kind of thing,” Jehan coaxes. “Was it something expensive? Or something beautiful?”

“If me and my colleagues get involved it’s usually both,” Montparnasse hums.

Jehan makes a noise in the back of their throat. “Curiosity killed the cat,” they chide.

“You look the picture of health to me,” he teases. Maybe he’s enjoying this a little too much. If Claquesous knew how much fun this was he wouldn’t question his wanting to come back.

Jehan huffs at him and pulls their lips into a pout.

“Tell you what,” he grins. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jehan says, eyes lighting up.

“Me, challenging a faerie?” Montparnasse says, innocently raising his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

♣

Jehan manages not to tell Montparnasse outright to go visit Feuilly’s shop immediately. Right now they’re pretty sure Montparnasse hasn’t picked up on any ulterior motives, but if they get any more obvious he might. It’s hard enough to act normal as it is. It was bad enough before, but now they actually understand what that fluttering around their heart means it’s even more difficult to ignore it. They are extremely uncomfortable tricking him like this, but they can apologise for that later. Preferably when they’ve found out they have nothing _else_ to apologise for.

They can’t resist sending Feuilly a text though, telling him that Montparnasse _might_ come by today and that they really want to know if he does.

*You’ll be the first to know if he stops by,* Feuilly sends back in a surprisingly fast response.

Jehan replies with a flurry of affectionate emoji’s and decides to start experimenting with baked chocolate mousse to distract themself. It doesn’t do a lot by way of distracting them, but they havenever made anything more rich and chocolatey. Sadly, there is no message from Feuilly. Jehan has too much chocolate in them to be really despondent, but they are definitely not up to sitting still for an entire evening together. So they carefully shut all the windows of their little apartment and sing to themself while rearranging their furniture. No one hears a thing and it makes Jehan feel a lot better.

♣

Montparnasse has an excellent sense of direction and he has lived in Paris all his life, but it actually takes him some effort to find the address Jehan sent him. It doesn’t help that they didn’t give him a name for the shop. But when he finds it, it seems that it doesn’t have a name. There is no name on the door or above the window, there is only the display of bags in the window and a small plaque that says: “Leather Work”.

He steps inside and looks around. The shop is small and very tidy. Montparnasse looks at the bags on display with genuine respect. The picture Jehan sent him wasn’t an exception. They are all expertly made. Most of them a little plain for _his_ particular taste, but-

“Bonjour monsieur, can I help you with something or are you just looking?”

Montparnasse turns around. A short young man with dark red hair and rolled up sleeves is suddenly standing behind him, smiling slightly and looking at him with very attentive eyes.

“Looking for a present actually,” he replies. “My friend Jehan recommended your shop.”

“Your friend Jehan,” the shopkeeper repeats with a smile. “Then you must be Parnasse.”

“That’s right,” he nods. He’s trying to guess the other man’s age, but while he’s usually pretty good at that he’s drawing a blank right now.

“Nice to meet you, Parnasse, I’m Feuilly.” He looks at the messenger bag Montparnasse was just inspecting. “Is that the sort of thing you’re looking for?”

“Something a little bigger I think,” Montparnasse says. Babet can never read only one book at the time and he’s always lugging them around with him.

Feuilly nods thoughtfully. “And your friend, what does he need it for?”

“Books,” Montparnasse replies. He glances at Feuilly, who looks back with an odd sort of smile playing around his mouth. Montparnasse frowns slightly. This guy looks utterly trustworthy in every single way, if that isn’t suspicious Montparnasse doesn’t know what is.

“So, book bags,” Feuilly says, walking over to a display rack. “I have some nice ones that can be used as both a backpack and a shoulder bag.”

Montparnasse looks at Feuilly’s suggestions carefully. Some of them have hidden pockets, he can appreciate that.

“I like this one,” he says, taking up a brown bag that is a lot bigger on the inside than you’d think from looking at it. “How much is it?” Not a question he asks too often.

“Expensive,” Feuilly says cheerfully. “But I might be able to make it a little less so for you.” Montparnasse is absolutely certain he looks him up and down before adding: “Since Jehan likes you so much.”

Even though he tries his level best not to, Montparnasse can feel himself grinning.

“They talk about you a lot,” Feuilly hums, taking the bag out of his hands.

“Do they now?” Montparnasse smirks. He imagines Jehan wandering through this shop, looking at everything admiringly and chattering about him. It’s a very attractive picture.

“Yes they do,” Feuilly says, walking to the counter in the back of the room. “And they don’t usually talk about people a lot.”

“Oh?” Montparnasse says, following him. That surprises him actually. It’s obvious how much Jehan likes people and they’re always so cheerful. If Feuilly is an old friend, which he seems to be, Montparnasse would expect Jehan to talk his ear off about all their regulars.

“Hm,” Jehan nods. “They don’t make friends easily. Jehan is so shy, not a lot of people feel inspired to talk to them I guess.”

“Then they’re idiots,” Montparnasse blurts out.

Feuilly places the bag on the counter and glances at him. “I agree,” he smiles. “But then again, even if they do talk to them, Jehan usually just listens, it’s rather hard to get them to actually respond.”

Montparnasse looks thoughtfully at the packing paper Feuilly is unrolling. That doesn’t sound like Jehan at all. Not like the Jehan who told him off for thieving when they just met and not like the Jehan he knows now, who can talk about music and poetry until they are so full with it their words almost start blurring together in their excitement. “Can’t imagine why,” he mutters.

“They probably think they don’t have anything interesting to say,” Feuilly says, lovingly wrapping the bag.

“They cannot think that,” Montparnasse disagrees. “Jehan’s shy when they talk about themself, but not when they talk about the things they love. I’ve never heard them apologise for anything they liked.” He shuts up when he sees Feuilly repress a grin. He feels a little caught, but it’s kind of nice to be able to talk about Jehan with someone that knows them.

“Was that a reference to them talking about poetry or flowers?” Feuilly asks cheerfully.

Again Montparnasse is surprised. He feels slightly unbalanced and he’s beginning to suspect that Feuilly is not quite human. “I don’t think Jehan has ever talked about flowers,” he says.

“Really?” Feuilly says, looking surprised in turn.

Montparnasse leans on the counter and asks: “Do they ever leave their café at all?”

“Not as much as they should,” Feuilly says, sounding very much like an older brother. “Why, did they decline an invitation of yours?”

“No,” Montparnasse says, drawing back a little. He never invited them to go do anything. He has thought about it…

Feuilly gives him another appraising look, but he doesn’t say anything, instead ringing up the bag on the cash register and handing the package over to Montparnasse with a smile.

“Thanks,” Montparnasse says. He really has never met anyone that manages to mix behaving so suspiciously with such an aura of trustworthiness. “You and Jehan are just friends?” he says, looking Feuilly directly in the eye. “…not family?”

“Just friends,” Feuilly smiles amusedly. “Why?”

“No reasons,” Montparnasse mutters and he hands over exactly what he owes Feuilly for the bag.

“Thank you kindly,” Feuilly nods. “And I hope your friend likes it.”

“I know he will,” Montparnasse says and that is as much a compliment to his own judgement as to Feuilly’s handiwork.

“Very good,” Feuilly hums. “Are you going to see Jehan on your way back?”

Montparnasse raises his chin defiantly. “I might,” he says. That was definitely his plan. Jehan’s café is practically on the way home and he didn’t come here at this specific time early in the afternoon by accident.

“Excellent,” Feuilly smiles. “Tell them I said hi then.”

Montparnasse makes a noncommittal noise and after another look at Feuilly – who apparently never stops smiling – he leaves the store. He glances back at the door of the shop and the tiny display window. It looks a lot smaller from the outside. Montparnasse sniffs. He is not convinced about Feuilly and Jehan not being family. Not at all. He looks at the neatly wrapped package and grins. That was a waste. He’s certain Jehan will want to see what he chose. Cheerfully he turns around and starts walking. It’s half past two, perfect.

The fact that his ringtone actually startles him is a testament to how preoccupied Montparnasse is. He answers it with an annoyed: “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” It’s Claquesous and he sounds almost as annoyed.

“Out buying a present for Babet,” Montparnasse answers and he keeps on walking.

“Chetta agreed to meet us,” Claquesous says tensely. “Can you come now?”

Montparnasse scowls at the world in general. That means missing an opportunity to see Jehan. But he also really wants to get this over with. Jehan doesn’t deserve to be suspected like this any longer. “Fine,” he sighs. “Where is it?”

Claquesous gives him the address. “Meet you at the nearest metro station?” he asks.

“Sure,” Montparnasse agrees.

“See you there then.”

“See you.” Montparnasse puts his phone away and turns around, setting off in a different direction.

♣

Claquesous is leaning against a low wall outside the station when Montparnasse steps into the sunshine again.

“What’s that then?” Claquesous asks by way of greeting, nodding at the package.

“Babet’s present,” Montparnasse says. “I’ll show you later.”

“Hm,” Claquesous hums.

They start walking. Claquesous looks tense. Montparnasse doesn’t feel completely at ease himself, but he’s not afraid of what Chetta will find. There is nothing to find.

“You went back yesterday,” Claquesous says flatly.

“Gueul told you,” Montparnasse grumbles.

“Of course he did,” Claquesous answers, somewhat nettled.

“Is that why we suddenly have an appointment with the formidable Chetta?” Montparnasse says snarkily.

Claquesous makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat. “I’m only trying to help, you stubborn jerk.”

“I know,” Montparnasse says, not looking at him. “And I appreciate it, you sulky ass.”

“Ugh,” Claquesous grunts, but he doesn’t argue. Instead they walk side by side in silence until they turn into the street where they need to be.

Montparnasse glances around. Nothing but residential houses. “She didn’t give you her actual home address, did she?” Montparnasse says incredulously.

“Can’t have,” Claquesous says tensely.

They reach the house and look at the row of bells. The inscription beside the first floor apartment reds: C & W & E.

“That’s her,” Claquesous says, pressing the button.

There’s a buzz and the old intercom creaks as a male voice says: “Chetta’s clients?”

“Yeah,” Claquesous says.

“Be right there!”

The intercom goes silent.

“This _is_ her actual house,” Claquesous says, looking at Montparnasse in dismay.

“Well,” Montparnasse hums. “She’s a clairvoyant, probably knows it will do her no harm to invite us.”

Claquesous pulls a face that no doubt means that he thinks it’s offensive that anyone could be sure he is to be trusted.

The door opens and they are greeted by a thin young man with an almost offensively friendly smile. “Hi!” he says. “I’m Wings, come on in.”

Montparnasse smirks at Claquesous’ expression, but they both mutter something indistinct in reply and follow Wings inside. This must be one of the happily cursed husbands. Montparnasse has only seen Chetta twice, very briefly, but he has never seen either of her partners. This guy fits the descriptions though.

“You have sorcery too, right?” Wings says, looking back at Claquesous as he leads them through a corridor that is made extremely narrow because of the bicycle leaning against the wall.

“Yes…” Claqeusous grits.

“Neat!” Wings says happily.

Claquesous throws Montparnasse a despairing look and Montparnasse shrugs.

“Chetta, my love,” Wings singsongs as he throws open the door to a nicely decorated sitting room. “Your colleague and his friend are here.”

Montparnasse can almost hear Claquesous hiss at the word colleague and he tries not to snort.

A door on the other end of the room opens and Chetta comes in, followed by a tall man with a smile that is exactly as cheerful as Wings’.

“Sous, Parnasse, welcome,” Chetta says moving towards them. “Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee, lemonade?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Claquesous says stiffly. Montparnasse’s thoughts exactly.

Chetta smiles. “As you wish,” she says amusedly. “If you could wait in the kitchen…” She gestures to the door she just came out of.

“No,” Claquesous says bluntly.

Chetta narrows her eyes.

“I’m not leaving him alone with you,” Claquesous says warningly.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. Chetta has a way better reputation than either of them.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Chetta demands to know. “I cannot do active magic. _I am able to do nothing but watch_.”

Claquesous grimaces and scowls at her smile.

“I don’t work with an audience,” she says firmly.

Montparnasse couldn’t agree more. “What about them?” he says, gesturing to the couch, where her partners have sat down together, seemingly enjoying the scene.

“Good point,” Chetta nods. “Wings, Eagle, if you could keep Sous company while I do a reading for Parnasse that would be very helpful.

“Of course,” Wings says, getting to his feet and Eagle adds kindly:

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

Claquesous looks from them to Chetta to Montparnasse with an expression of great discomfort.

“It’s fine, Sous,” Montparnasse says.

“Alright,” Claquesous grumbles. He looks at Eagle with a half-hearted attempt at a friendly look. “I’ll take tea if you’re making some.”

“Sure thing,” Eagle says and he cheerfully holds the door open for Claquesous and Wings.

Montparnasse watches them go with a slight frown. That much genuine cheerfulness is unnerving. Maybe they _are_ cursed.

“Well,” Chetta says behind him. “That was easier than I had expected it to be.”

Montparnasse turns around to look at her. He hadn’t noticed before that she isn’t nearly as tall as she comes across. More personality than actual height he guesses. That and long flowy dresses. Chetta walks over to a bookcase which is indeed mostly filled with books, except for the top shelf, on which no less than five crystal balls are displayed. Montparnasse stares at them.

Chetta sees him staring and sighs. “Every single birthday,” she rolls her eyes. “Wings and Eagle think they are funny.” She sound exasperated, but the tender look in her eyes betrays her.

Montparnasse hums in place of an answer.

“Do you want to begin right away, or do you have questions?” she asks, taking a wooden box off a shelf.

“Do _you_ have questions?” he asks in return.

“Not really,” she shrugs. “Sous told me that he’s afraid you’ve been glamoured by a faerie you’ve been spending time with.”

“Sounds about right,” Montparnasse grunts. “Except he left out the part where he’s being paranoid for no reason.”

“No,” Chetta smiles. “He told me that’s what you think about it.” She sits down in a brightly coloured armchair, placing the box on the coffee table in front of her. “Shall we begin then?”

Montparnasse takes a seat on the couch. “Go ahead,” he says. He doesn’t really know what to expect, but Chetta is right, she does no active magic. All she can do is watch.

Silently Chetta takes out a small brass bowl, a packet of matches and a few dried sprigs.

“What is that?” Montparnasse asks, more curious than suspicious. Claquesous doesn’t use herbs.

“Lemongrass,” she says. “Just a little help.”

She strikes a match and lets the dried herb smoulder in the little bowl. There is only a faint wisp of smoke and Montparnasse does not perceive any difference in the atmosphere whatsoever. Chetta closes her eyes and takes off her glasses. She takes a couple of deep breaths and opens them slowly, looking right at Montparnasse. He looks back at her, surprised to see how large her eyes are. He had thought her glasses made them seem larger, now he thinks it must have been the reverse. Chetta doesn’t speak, so Montparnasse is silent too. Her eyes wander over him searchingly. Sometimes she seems to stare right through him, other times her eyes meet his with startling clarity. Slowly Montparnasse begins to feel like he is being tied down. Like he can’t move under her stare or _shouldn’t_ move, for fear of revealing even more.

“This is uncomfortable for you,” Chetta mutters, but her voice sounds very distant. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, but he is beginning to understand why Claquesous speaks ill of clairvoyants. He feels like a sheet of wax paper in front of a flame, the light behind it revealing every blemish.

Chetta takes in a deep breath and the feeling fades.

Montparnasse shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his seat. If it’s at all possible, he never wants to go through that again.

“That was perhaps a little rigorous,” Chetta says, sitting back and swinging one leg over the other. “But I wanted to be sure. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Montparnasse grunts. “Just tell me.”

Chetta puts her glasses back on and gives him a serious look. “There is no faerie glamour on you,” she says.

No matter how sure Montparnasse was, he still feels relieved. A tension in his back he did not realise had been there lets go and he nods. “Good,” he says roughly.

“Faerie magic can be hard to detect,” Chetta says. “But I am certain. There is nothing.”

“Now if we can only make Sous believe it,” Montparnasse huffs. He allows himself a smirk. He was right. Jehan didn’t do anything. Just like he knew they wouldn’t have.

Chetta is still looking at him, but the serious look on her face is fading. The corners of her mouth twitch. “Yes,” she hums. “He is being rather uptight about this whole thing, isn’t he. Ironic, considering.”

Montparnasse grins. “So you know too,” he says.

Chetta grins back at the understanding on his face. “Oh yes, I’ve known since the first time I met him. Even hinted that I knew something a couple of times. But he’s never asked me to tell him, stubborn.”

He snorts. That sounds exactly like Claquesous. Suddenly he remembers his reaction after him bringing up Chetta when Jehan told them about his faerie heritage and laughs out loud.

“So I take it your faerie friend told him,” Chetta says amusedly.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse nods. “Completely took him by surprise.”

“I would have liked to see that,” she sighs wistfully.

“Well,” Montparnasse smirks. “It seems I’ve survived all the faerie influences around me, since I’m completely free of any magic.”

Chetta’s eyes light up and she waves a warning finger at him. “I didn’t say that,” she says.

Montparnasse frowns at her. “Didn’t say what?” he asks.

“You are free from faerie magic,” she says smilingly. “But you are suffering from something else.”

Montparnasse freezes. “What?” he says, his voice level.

“There are many kinds of magic,” she say. Her voice is solemn, but her eyes are sparkling playfully. “I know the stories people tell about me. ‘Happily cursed husbands’. People say I cursed Wings and Eagle to keep them with me.”

“Sous says people give you too much credit,” Montparnasse grunts, eyeing her suspiciously.

Chetta laughs. “Ah yes, he really doesn’t like me, does he?” she says. “Well, it’s not true.” She shakes her head. “We’re not married.”

Montparnasse glares at her.

“Yet,” she adds with a wink. “And besides, I didn’t curse them. We cursed each other.” She smiles at Montparnasse’s bewildered expression. “All three of us suffer under the same magic. The very same magic I see in you.”

Montparnasse stares at her. He’s inclined to think she’s lying, because she is clearly enjoying this way too much. “What the hell are you talking about,” he snaps.

“A very serious affliction,” she says, in a not at all serious tone. “Do you know that glamour dazzles the mind? What you have might do the same…”

“Do you think this is funny?” Montparnasse demands.

“I do actually,” Chetta says, leaning forward in her chair. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“No,” he says pointedly. “So either tell me, or drop it.”

“ _Love_ , Montparnasse,” she says. “I’m talking about love.”

Montparnasse starts at the use of his full name and his mind grinds to a panicked halt.

Chetta smiles at him, almost sympathetically, but not quite. Her amusement is mixing with a touch of incredulity.

“I don’t-” he starts, trying to compose himself. “ _No_.”

She looks at him silently, one eyebrow raising slightly. Once again the feeling of her magic creeps up on him. It is nowhere near as strong or invasive as it was before, but it is still a very unpleasant sensation to have her looking at him like she can see all his thoughts written on his face. And his thoughts are…not in his favour at the moment. They wander and he remembers the way Jehan’s eyes sparkle when they can’t hold back their laughter. The expression of pride and contentment on their face when they glance through their café. He can see that one strand of hair that always escapes from their braid. Their sunflower yellow apron, tied with a bow in their waist. He can _feel_ the tingle of his skin as Jehan touches his arm. The swirl in his stomach when they pulled him into a waltz. The softness of their loosely knitted sweater. Their sweater that smells like them. Like wildflowers, fresh pastries, secret smiles and flushed cheeks.

Montparnasse blinks.

Chetta’s lips are trembling with a laugh she can barely restrain.

“Shit…” Montparnasse mutters.

“I’m afraid so,” she smiles. This time her smile is genuine.

Montparnasse rubs his palm against his forehead. This is entirely too much information to process right now. He looks up at Chetta resentfully. “Why would you do that?” he complains. “Why would you just tell me that?”

“Because,” she says, getting to her feet, “Since we’re dealing with an actual faerie, being in love with them without realising it might be very risky.” She grins. “And because I like gloating, but mostly the first one.”

Montparnasse grimaces. “Well,” he grumbles. “You better tell Sous I’m free of any _actual_ magic, because he probably won’t believe me if I tell him.”

“Sure thing,” she answers cheerfully. “And I’ll keep the rest between us, shall I?”

Montparnasse glares.

She laughs and beckons him to follow her. She shows him into the kitchen, where Claquesous is sitting at a well-worn wooden table with Wings, looking extremely sullen. Especially compared to Wings, who is happily telling him about the healing properties of apricots.

“There she is,” Wings says as Chetta enters and the spark of adoration in his eyes makes Montparnasse think there might be something to this whole curse of love thing.

“Had a good séance?” Eagle asks. He is leaning against the kitchen counter with an astonishing amount of elegance that takes Montparnasse wholly by surprise.

“It’s not a séance if it deals with the living, darling,” Chetta says in a tone of voice that suggests they have had this discussion before, but is still fond.

“But it _sounds_ good,” he points out.

She smiles and rolls her eyes.

“Well?” Claquesous asks impatiently.

“Parnasse was right,” Chetta says. “There is no glamour on him.”

Claquesous lets out a breath.

“No magic of any kind in fact,” she assures him, but her eyes twinkle at Montparnasse as she says it.

“Right,” Claquesous says gravely, getting to his feet. He looks Chetta in the eye and says, in a tone of voice that Montparnasse barely ever hears from him: “Thank you, Chetta, I owe you.”

“My pleasure,” she nods. “And yes, you do.” She grins at Wings and Eagle, who grin back at her like this is an old joke they all share.

“I’m sure I’ll hear from you when you want to make use of that,” Claquesous says darkly. “Now, we won’t bother you any longer.”

Chetta walks them to the door and as Montparnasse squeezes past her in the narrow hallway he mutters: “Thank you.”

“Good luck…” she says quietly.

Montparnasse nearly groans out loud. _Good luck_. What on earth is he supposed to do now? Montparnasse fidgets with Babet’s package as he and Claquesous walk down the street. He could kick himself. He hasn’t been in love since… Since… Has he ever been in love? Really in love? Somehow he doubts it. If this is being in love. What he feels when he thinks of Jehan. Then he’s never been in love before. Maybe he would have recognised it if he had.

“So…” Claquesous suddenly breaks the silence. “No spells, no glamour, no magic.”

“You heard the clairvoyant,” Montparnasse says flatly.

“I didn’t want there to be something wrong you know,” Claquesous says, glancing at him. “I like them. Jehan, I mean.”

Montparnasse bites his lip. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Claquesous says, staring ahead again. “I don’t know them that well, but…” He lets his voice trail off. “I just needed to know,” he starts up again. “That this was really all…okay.”

Montparnasse grimaces. Right now it doesn’t really feel like everything is all okay. Suddenly the idea of him shamelessly flirting with Jehan and Jehan barely responding is highly uncomfortable. Except…did they barely respond? All the flushed cheeks, the long talks, the shy laughter, the dancing… Could he actually have a chance with them? He shakes his head. “Well,” he says, in an attempt to give Claquesous some sort of answer. “Now you know.”

“Yeah,” his friend hums. “And that being the case, _please_ just ask them out, because if you’re not under some sort of spell you’ve got it worse than Brujon.”

There is a moment of absolute silence before Montparnasse swears out loud and Claquesous snorts with laughter.

♣

Jehan is trying not to be too impatient. Of course Montparnasse has things to do that might delay him going to Feuilly’s shop. Still, they are really hoping he will go tonight or tomorrow because the waiting is agony.

Their phone buzzes on the counter and they nearly jump out of their skin. With a jolt of nerves they remember that Montparnasse has their number now. It could be him. They grab their phone. It isn’t. It’s a text from Feuilly:

*Everything alright?*

*Yes, why wouldn’t it be?* they send back. That might not be the whole truth, but it’s close enough.

*Closed the café for today?*

*I’m about to.* Jehan frowns at their phone. What is this about?

*Alright, just checking up on you.*

*Okay?* they send back, a little confused. * _You_ alright?*

*Never better.*

Jehan gets the café ready for closing, still with a faint frown on their face. Maybe Feuilly is wondering why Montparnasse hasn’t come by yet too? There is a knock on the recently locked door and they spin around. The leap that their heart makes betrays that they think it might be Montparnasse, but it’s Feuilly. Jehan smiles and hurries to the door to unlock it.

“I’m _fine_ , Feuilly,” they say, letting him in. “Really. You didn’t need to come to check up on me in person.”

“I wanted to,” Feuilly says warmly. “And I have something to tell you.”

“What?” Jehan smiles.

“Montparnasse came by the shop today.”

Jehan’s smile vanishes in a flurry of nerves. They can feel themself grow pale. “And?” they ask shakily.

“And he’s fine,” Feuilly says. “You didn’t weave a spell. You didn’t put glamour on him. Nothing.”

Jehan is still staring at Feuilly. They heard him, but they don’t quite dare believe him yet.

“You didn’t do anything, Jehan,” Feuilly says, looking them straight in the eye. “Everything is fine.”

“Oh,” Jehan sighs. Their shoulders sag and the relief washing over them makes them lightheaded for a moment. “Oh I’m glad.” They sink down on the nearest chair and run their hand through their hair, hitting the tie of their ponytail halfway through.

Feuilly sits down next to them and pats their arm affectionately.

“Oh Feuilly, I’m so relieved,” Jehan says, voice still shaking. They fix their eyes on him anxiously. “And you’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” he says firmly.

A smile trembles onto Jehan’s lips and they allow themself a small burst of happiness. They didn’t do anything. Montparnasse is fine. They didn’t make him come back, they didn’t make him like them, everything he did, he did out of his own free will. Jehan takes in a deep breath and their smile grows steadier. Montparnasse comes here every week, because he wants to. Montparnasse tells them stories, because he wants to. Montparnasse listens to them ramble on, because he wants to. He makes them laugh and teases and danced with them, _because he wants to_.

“So,” Feuilly says, forcing Jehan to call a halt to their increasingly joyous thoughts. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes,” Jehan says, eyes shining. “Yes I do. _Thank you_.”

“Any time, Jehan,” Feuilly says sincerely.

Jehan breathes a happy sigh and, because their feelings must go somewhere, they fling themself forward and hug Feuilly. He laughs and hugs them back, firmly and warmly. When Jehan lets go and lets themself fall back into their seat, he smiles at them.

“And…” he hums, leaning his hand on his chin. “Do you maybe have something to tell me?”

Jehan suddenly sits very still. “No…?” they try.

The corners of Feuilly’s mouth tremble and his grey eyes sparkle. “Jehan, there’s a full-grown wisteria blooming in front of your café,” he points out.

Their cheeks burn with mortification. For the life of them they don’t know how, but they had actually forgotten about the wisteria for a moment.

Feuilly’s laugh rings out through the empty café, filling it with warmth and Jehan smiles in spite of themself. “It is just like you Jehan,” Feuilly says kindly. “To shy away from getting to know anybody too well and then to fall head over heels in love, barely twenty one years old.”

Jehan huffs quietly.

Feuilly looks at them and something more of seriousness comes into his expression. “I think you should talk to Parnasse about it,” he says.

Jehan’s eyes widen. “I can’t,” they protest.

“You have to,” Feuilly says seriously. “Or at least, you have to if you want to keep seeing him as you do now. You were too harsh on yourself by far, but you were right to be cautious, Jehan. Love can be a wild thing.”

“I didn’t know I was in love before…” Jehan mutters.

Feuilly smiles. “When did you realise?”

“The night I spent at your place,” they mumble, not making eye contact.

Feuilly nods. “You have known him for a while now,” he says. “And all the different kinds of love are very blurry, even though people like to pretend they are not. You don’t have to tell him everything. If you need more time, give yourself more time. But I think you should at least tell him something of how much you care for him.”

Jehan glances at him nervously. If they tell Montparnasse there is no knowing what he will say.

“At this moment you can tell him you know for a fact that you love him, free of glamour or spells,” Feuilly says. “That is worth a lot.”

“Yes,” Jehan says softly. They can see that, but that doesn’t make the idea of telling him any less terrifying.

“And,” Feuilly says with a slight smile. “Has it occurred to you that he might feel something similar?”

Jehan’s heart skips a beat. “I…” they stammer. “I’m not sure if… You think he might?”

Feuilly face is almost neutral, but not quite. “There’s only one way to find out,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Fluff Central!


	10. In which a confession is made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I am still on holiday, so still on Tumblr/internet presence-hiatus, but AO3 doesn't count, right? Shhhh I've just decided it doesn't count.)

Saturday is normally one of Jehan’s favourite days. Since he’s closed on Sundays everyone that wants some of his pastries for the weekend comes in on Saturday, turning the pace into a happy mix of regulars and people who come in from the street after a morning of shopping. But today Jehan is not pleased with the constant stream of customers. They aren’t happy to see any of them, even though they have committed no sin worse than not being Montparnasse.

Jehan knows it’s silly. Montparnasse visited two days ago, so they really have no right to expect him, but that’s exactly why they day is so tedious. There’s virtually no chance of seeing Montparnasse and Jehan’s head is too full of him to think of anyone else. They mess up coffee orders and ask several customers the same question twice. Even their apologies sound distant, because their mind is preoccupied with trying to find the words to tell Montparnasse… They’re not even sure what they want to tell him. Where should they even start? ‘I want to dance with you again?’ ‘I want to kiss you back?’ ‘You made me grow a wisteria?’ ‘I was afraid I made you like me because of how much I like you, so I tricked you into going to see my friend who is also a faerie by the way and luckily he says I didn’t do anything so I just wanted to tell you that and also I’m in love with you?’ Jehan lets out a sigh behind the coffee machine. This is a mess. They are a mess.

♣

Montparnasse has spent all Saturday morning and now most of the afternoon in his room, dividing his time pretty equally between denying his feelings, resenting his feelings and wondering if telling Jehan is a good idea. Not that he has to wonder. He knows it’s not a good idea. It’s a terrible idea. But the alternative – not saying anything and carrying on as before – that somehow sounds even worse.

Because that means having to go back and look into Jehan’s big brown eyes and somehow _not_ letting on that there is literally not another person in the world he wants  to be close to as much as them.

Montparnasse runs a hand through his hair and groans. He can’t stroll back into that café like nothing has changed. He doesn’t want to be just another customer. He doesn’t want to have to wait until Jehan is done being nice to other people before he can talk to them. Montparnasse lets out a disgusted sound. He’s being _ridiculous_.

Angrily he pulls out his phone. He is _not_ going to do this. He’s not going to make this some big, complicated, dramatic thing. He types out a text and hits send before he can even start to second guess himself.

♣

When their phone lights up Jehan expects it to be Feuilly. It is a genuine shock to see the name “Parnasse” on the screen and they can’t bring themself to read the message in the café, where the customers might see their reaction. They flee to the kitchen and read it there, cheeks burning up almost instantly, because it says:

*Hey. No café on Sunday right? Shall I come bother you on your day off?*

Jehan’s entire stomach seems to be filled with bubbles of joy and anxiety. The idea of Montparnasse coming over when there are no other people around is sending nervous jitters through their whole being, but it would be best to talk to him in private… They take a deep breath and send back:

*Yes! That sounds fun J*

Montparnasse responds immediately. *Around 2?*

*Perfect* Jehan replies, biting their lip and smiling at the same time.

*Cool. See you then.*

They panic for a moment, not knowing whether that merits another response or not. Eventually they send one last happy emoji and hurry back to the café, where three people are waiting at the counter. They all order black coffee to go with their cake and when they leave one of them remarks laughingly:

“That was a strong brew you made us.”

Jehan glances at the fresh pot of coffee they made. “I hope it wasn’t too much,” they say awkwardly.

All three of them shake their head pleasantly and leave, but when Jehan goes to check the coffee they pour the rest down the sink. Even their magic is nervous. They’re lucky these customers don’t taste the difference between caffeine and anxiety.

Jehan takes a deep, steadying breath and calms down just a bit. Tomorrow two o’clock isn’t far away and tomorrow at two o’clock there will be an end to their fretting one way or the other.

♣

To wake up softly and sweetly on Sunday mornings is one of the luxuries of Jehan’s life. This morning they wake up tangled in their sheets and blushing like a rose. They take a moment to hide their face in their pillow until they’re ready to be awake. (And also until they’ve stopped blushing.)

Finally Jehan gets out of bed with an uncertain smile on their face. Is it bad manners to dream of someone before knowing whether they also dream of you? With a sudden determination they throw open the doors to their closet and start to get dressed. They are nervous, but that dream has left them too happy to be genuinely anxious. Montparnasse is coming over for an actual visit today. A planned one. With a set time and everything. That is different, that is new and they are _so_ looking forward to it.

Jehan chooses a flowy dress with blue flowers and throws on their favourite knitted rainbow cardigan. They wonder if they should prepare something for today. Maybe Montparnasse has something specific in mind himself? Jehan softly chews their lip in thought an glances around their room. They should tidy. It makes sense for them to hang out here instead of at the café, right? A jitter of nerves sends them into a flurry of folding clothes and clearing away books. They know they’re being daft. Montparnasse has already seen their place and it was quite messy then, but if they do tell him today and if he… They want to place to look nice.

When the electronic bell buzzes loudly in the stairwell some time later, Jehan nearly jumps out of their skin. Wildly they glance around. Well, the apartment looks very nice now. They must have gotten a little carried away.

They glance at the clock. Half past one. Montparnasse is early. They fly down the stairs, two steps at the time and do their best not to actually run through the café on the way to the door. When they reach it, however, their face falls. It’s not Montparnasse at the door. It’s a stranger.

Disappointed as they are, Jehan puts on a polite face before opening the door with a gentle: “I’m sorry, Sir, the café is closed on Sundays.”

The man, who looks manages to look entitled without having even spoken a word, ignores this information completely. “Are you the owner?” he demands.

Jehan’s hand tightens slightly around the doorknob. “Yes,” they say, eyes narrowing slightly.

The man gives them an appraising look. “And this is Le Conte de Café?”

“That is what it says above the door,” Jehan says stiffly. (To be fair, part of the golden letters are at the moment obscured by blooming wisteria.)

“Then I’m at the right place,” the man says. ‘I need you to cater a get together I am hosting for some collaegues.”

Jehan stares into the stranger’s arrogant face. “I’m sorry,” they say. Their lips are smiling, but their voice is cool. “I don’t do catering.”

The man scoffs and takes a step forward. “Let’s discuss that inside, shall we.”

“No,” Jehan says and the gentle wind rustling the wisteria holds its breath. Jehan’s eyes are dark and their feet are planted firmly on the ground. This man is _not_ coming in their shop. Not now, not ever. If he won’t leave by himself they will _make him leave._

♣

Montparnasse turns the corner with determined strides. He looks more confident than he feels, but he’s used to relying on appearances only and for now it will have to do. The fact that Jehan wanted to have him over on Sunday is already encouraging. There’s no need to go around making big confessions right off the bat. Just spending some time with them alone should be enough for now. He’ll try to convince himself it’s enough anyway, before he does something stupid.

Suddenly Montparnasse slows his step. The café just came in view and something is not right. An expensively dressed man is standing on the doorstep and Jehan is standing in the doorway. Jehan, who has muttered at him several times when he lingered in doorways, who does not even like to leave doors ajar, is standing in the open doorway to their café. Except, Montparnasse sees now, they are not lingering. They are blocking the way.

The man makes a movement towards Jehan and Montparnasse’s eyes narrow. That was not a relaxed movement, that was a forceful one. He’s still walking, but he sticks close to the side of the street, out of immediate sight. He’s close enough now to hear that the man is raising his voice at Jehan. Montparnasse hand moves on its own as he reaches for something that isn’t there. He’s not working, so he’s not armed. “Shit,” he hisses softly and he quickly weighs his options. If that guy lays as much as a finger on Jehan Montparnasse will personally ensure he will regret it _severely_. It’d be better to lure him away from the store though… And even better than that to lure him into the alley across the street…

Montparnasse clenches his teeth. Soon he’ll be close enough to be noticed. He’ll have to decide whether he’s going to be aggressive or distracting. He can hear Jehan’s voice now, tense but restrained;

“I think you should leave.”

“And I think you should hold your tongue,” the man snarls.

Montparnasse clenches his fists. Aggressive it is.

“I don’t think you realise how lucky you are I even took notice of your dinky little café,” the man continues. “I move in the _best_ circles of Paris.”

“Then you won’t have any problem finding someone else to cater your party,” Jehan replies coolly.

There is a chill in the air that makes Montparnasse hesitate. That didn’t sound quite like Jehan…

“You watch your tone,” the man spits. “Do you have _any_ idea who I am? I am maître Bamatabois! If I say you’ll cater for me you will cater for me.”

Montparnasse freezes to his spot in shock. He can only hope that was a bluff. That that wasn’t a true name. Because only one type of person uses their true name as a threat; someone with sorcery strong enough to not be afraid. Montparnasse recognizes that tone of voice. It says: ‘ _I am stronger than you_ ’. It says: ‘ _I am worth more than you_ ’. It says: “ _My name will beat yours, I do not need to fear you, so you will fear me_ ’. And something in the air is making Montparnasse’s body tense up. He knows what magic feels like and he feels it now. If that overdressed fop is a sorcerer he will be no help to Jehan. He can just see their face, pale, and their eyes looking very large and very dark. For a moment they stare in silence and then suddenly they speak.

“Maître Bamatabois,” they echo. Their voice makes the hairs on the back of Montparnasse’s neck stand on end. “That is who you are?”

“Yes,” the man smirks. “So you better-”

“That is _everything_ you are…” Jehan says and whatever the man was going to say, the words die on his lips. Jehan is still standing in the doorway, but they are no longer holding onto the door. Their hands are moving, almost clutching together in front of their chest but not quite. “Or-” they say, eyes darkening further still. “-close enough anyway.”

Montparnasse feels rooted to his spot and the arrogant lawyer seems to be suffering from the same. He is staring at Jehan like he’s seeing them for the first time. Montparnasse cannot look directly into Jehan’s face from this position, but he’s mesmerised all the same. It’s still Jehan, but nothing like the Jehan that blushes behind the counter serving coffee.

“Do you like dancing?” their voice suddenly rings out.

The man shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders like he’s trying to dispel an unpleasant thought. “Wh-what?” he stammers. His brashness and arrogance is sliding off him. His fancy clothes seem ill-fitted all of a sudden and Montparnasse recognises actual fear in the sudden cowering of his back.

“Do. You. Like. Dancing?” Jehan repeats. The syllables form a demanding rhythm and their voice sounds like a song. A sharp, snide song.

The man stares into Jehan’s eyes and his shoulders sag in the strangest way.

When Jehan speaks again Montparnasse does not recognise their voice. It twists and turns like a melody without end or beginning. It’s beautiful. It’s otherworldly. It’s terrifying. “ _Dance_ , maître Bamatabois,” they command and the man trembles to hear his own name. “Dance until you have forgotten my face. Dance until you have forgotten this place. Dance _away_ from me and do not…come…back.”

Montparnasse can hear his own heart beating to the rhythm of Jehan’s words. He stares, wide eyed, as the man turns around helplessly and starts to move away. He’s not quite dancing, but neither is he walking. His arms and legs move like they’re being pulled, forced into a pace he can’t control. With stiff, pitiful movements Bamatabois skips down the street, towards the nearest corner, but Montparnasse does not watch him go. He turns back to stare at Jehan, who is still standing in the doorway, hands now planted on their hips. They stand there, on the steps of their own café, with a wild look on their face that Montparnasse has never seen before and suddenly he understands. Everything people say about faeries is true. That jerk just gave Jehan his last name and Jehan took _control_ of him without any effort at all. He glances back at Bamatabois and just for a moment Montparnasse feels the weight of all his previous actions weighing on his mind. He gave Jehan his full name just to see the surprise on their face. He dared them to dance with him just to be able to hold them. He kissed them without proper permission just because he wanted to. He feels the danger of all of this, for as long as it takes him to look back at Jehan. As soon as he does, a smile twitches onto his lips and stays there, because Jehan has never looked more beautiful to him. A gust of wind tugs on their long dress and even that mismatched cardigan can’t ruin it. They look absolutely gorgeous standing there with fire in their eyes, surrounded by the cascades of deep blue flowers that Montparnasse has never really paid attention to before. There is still a little of the power lingering around them, Montparnasse can feel it tingle on his skin and it’s making his heart beat faster. His feet move again and he runs up to Jehan with a grin so wide it makes his eyes light up.

“That-” he says with emphasis and delight. “-was _awesome_.”

♣

Jehan nearly jumps. With a start they turn to the side and look straight into Montparnasse’s face. “You’re here!” they squeak. A moment ago they felt nothing but grim determination, but now they are horrified. “I didn’t hurt him!” they say hastily, glancing anxiously at the corner of the street where Bamatabois has limped out of sight. “He wouldn’t leave, I asked him nicely first! All I did was send him away. I could have done wo- I mean. He tried to _threaten_ me.” They stop talking. First of all because they do not think they are explaining this very well at all and secondly because Montparnasse doesn’t look in the least bit afraid or even disapproving.

“Why are you apologising?” he grins. “That jerk deserved everything he got.” Suddenly Montparnasse smiles darkly and Jehan has to hug their waist to stop the fluttering. “As far as I’m concerned you were being nice,” he says.

Jehan has to disagree there. They had not been nice, but they _had_ been rather merciful. “I just wouldn’t want you to think I’d ever hurt someone,” they mutter.

Montparnasse gives them an amused look. “I know that,” he says. “You’re a much better person than I am.” He looks back at the street corner and glares for a moment. “I would have broken his nose for a start.”

Now Jehan can’t help feeling amused. “You think a broken nose is worse than getting your- than what I did?” they ask.

“Probably hurts more,” Montparnasse shrugs. He slants his head thoughtfully. “Or does it hurt?”

He looks so utterly unconcerned that Jehan allows themself a not-so-sweet smile. “I don’t know,” they say. “No one has ever done it to me.”

Montparnasse laughs out loud and Jehan grins, suddenly realising they have never heard him laugh like that before. Montparnasse laughs a lot, but it’s usually soft, more like a chuckle. Not like this. They love this. Not that they don’t love his chuckles-

“Jehan?”

Jehan blinks and colours a little. “Yes?” they ask, sounding a lot calmer than they feel.

“Can I come in?” Montparnasse asks.

“Eh, yes,” Jehan mutters. They had not realised they were still blocking the way to the shop. Carefully, they take a step back, allowing the doorway to be a passage once more. They are grateful Montparnasse waits a moment before he steps inside, it seems like he understands they were not just standing there.

“In any case,” Montparnasse says conversationally, following Jehan into the café. “Breaking his nose would have stained his shirt.”

Jehan quirks an eyebrow. “I can’t tell whether that would be an incentive for you or a reason not to do it.”

“I’m not going to feel bad about staining someone _else’s_ last year’s Ralph Lauren,” Montparnasse snorts.

This time Jehan laughs out loud.

Montparnasse watches them with satisfaction on his face and when they snort and bite their lip to stop, he says: “You have a beautiful laugh, you know that?”

Jehan feels flames on their cheeks and glowing in their chest, but the look on Montparnasse’s face makes them remember that they need to talk. “Thank you,” they mumble, looking away. “Um…” This is a perfect opportunity. They should just start talking. If only they knew how to explain all this.

“What is it?” Montparnasse asks.

Jehan folds their hands behind their back. They don’t want to fidget with their hands. “I don’t…generally…laugh a lot,” they begin slowly.

Montparnasse is looking at them attentively. “I’ve noticed,” he says, the beginning of a smirk in one of the corners of his mouth. “Pity…”

“There’s a reason I don’t,” Jehan says. They are trying to plant their feet firmly on the wooden floorboards, but they do not feel very grounded. Quite the opposite. “It’s _not_ because I’m shy. Well, maybe I am, but not as shy as Feuilly thinks I am.”

Montparnasse smiles, but he has clearly caught on that they have something important to say and instead of replying he waits.

Jehan is grateful, but they also wish that they didn’t have to speak to explain these things. “The thing about being Fae,” they say bravely. “It’s…difficult to be around humans sometimes.” To their dismay Montparnasse’s face falls slightly and hastily they blurt out: “And I wish it wasn’t because I really like being around you!” They feel a blush taking over their entire face, but it’s worth it because Montparnasse looks relieved.

He clears his throat. “Right,” he hums, looking away for a moment. When he looks back the expression on his face is a little cautious. “What exactly is difficult about it?”

Jehan takes a deep breath. “It’s difficult because I don’t just use magic, parts of me _are_ magic. Laughing, singing, telling stories-” They colour a little deeper. “-dancing… There is magic in all of that. There is glamour in that and you-” Jehan gives Montparnasse a helpless smile. “-it’s really hard not to be myself around you.”

“And that is bad?” Montparnasse asks softly. His face is oddly neutral.

“No,” Jehan sighs. “But it would be if my glamour…if I actually…” Just get it over with. “I thought I might have accidentally glamoured you. Because I like you. And I would never ever want to do something like that, so I had to find out if I did or not and…I didn’t. I didn’t do anything to you. I promise.” There. They said it.

Montparnasse is…not surprised. Jehan cannot quite read his expression, but it’s not surprised or shocked or angry or any of the emotions they might have expected. He looks uncertain more than anything. “Why did you think you might have glamoured me?” he asks after a short silence.

Jehan clenches their hands behind their back. They refuse to tell him about the wisteria. Not now. That is too much to ask of them. “After we danced…” they mutter, casting down their eyes. “I suddenly thought, what if something happened when I-” They think of the moment they stepped out of their shoes and pulled Montparnasse closer and shut their mouth.

“Okay,” Montparnasse says and his voice sounds odd.

Jehan glances up at him, but his face is still calm. He’s smiling a little actually.

“So…no glamour,” he says.

“No glamour,” Jehan repeats, with a deep breath. “Nothing that affected you at least. I _promise_.”

Montparnasse smiles a little wider. “Does that mean we can dance again?”

Jehan let’s go of a little of the tension in their shoulders and lets their arms fall down their sides. “Maybe…”

“I’d like to dance with you again,” Montparnasse grins.

Jehan fixes him with a look and throws up their hands. “You don’t care about this either?” they cry. Confusion and relief are trying for strongest emotion at the moment and they let out a nervous laugh. “I tell you I might have glamoured you while dancing and you just want to do it again. You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s one of my best qualities,” Montparnasse smirks. His look softens a little. “But I’m sorry you were worried.”

Jehan nods. They are still a little worried, because even though this _was_ technically the worst part they have more to confess and they really don’t know how.

“Just out of curiosity,” Montparnasse interrupts their nerves. “How did you check that I was free of glamour?”

Right, they should really tell him about that too. Jehan gives him an apologetic look. “Um…my friend Feuilly checked for me.”

Montparnasse’s eyes widen. “So he _is_ Fae,” he says triumphantly. “I _knew_ there was something about him.”

Jehan hides their relief by laughing. “Yes,” they say and then, cautiously: “Did you like him?”

Montparnasse pulls a face. “I did and I kind of resent it.”

This time Jehan’s laugh is genuine. “Yeah, Feuilly gets that a lot.”

“Wait a minute,” Montparnasse says. He narrows his eyes at Jehan, but they can see the amused twinkles in the dark green. “Did you send me to his shop just so he could see me in person?”

“I had to!” Jehan protests. They don’t even feel anxious about it now, the look in Montparnasse’s eyes is nearly making them giddy.

“You _lied_ to me,” Montparnasse says and he manages to sound indignant despite his delighted face.

“Technically I didn’t lie,” Jehan points out. “Feuilly says you found a present for Babet.”

“No, this definitely counts as lying,” Montparnasse shakes his head. “And I didn’t even notice!” He slants his head. “Did you use your magic for that?”

Jehan wrinkles their nose in amusement. “No,” they say. “Do you think I’d need magic to lie to you?”

“Ouch,” Montparnasse groans.

Jehan laughs and he gives them a pleased look.

“Does this mean you can laugh now?” he asks.

“I guess so?” Jehan says happily. “Maybe I was being overcautious.”

“Well, then I call this a great development,” Montparnasse says decidedly.

Jehan smilingly shakes their head. Well, this has gone a million times better than they had expected. They look around the empty café and then back at Montparnasse. “So…what do you want to do?”

Montparnasse shrugs. “I don’t mind,” he says. “It’s your day off.”

Jehan hesitates. They feel a little lightheaded and they’re suddenly convinced that that isn’t only because of Montparnasse. “I think I’ve kind of forgotten to have lunch?” they say, slightly embarrassed. “Maybe we could make some food first and then decided what we want to do?”

“The day I turn down your food is the day they really have to check me for spells,” Montparnasse grins.

“Good to know,” Jehan says with a smile and they lead the way to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry to cut this here, I really am. I promised you fluff central and most of the fluff is still to come! But the alternative was letting you wait even longer for the next update.
> 
> Uploading now also gives me the opportunity to ask a very important question: when it comes the tooth rotting fluff that will happen very shortly: whose POV would you prefer? I usually have strong feeling about through whose eyes I want to tell specific parts of the story, but honestly, I could go either way right now. (Isn’t it the hardest thing to decide whether it is nicer to write/read kissing or _being_ kissed?)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for your time, comments, bookmarks and kudo’s! <3
> 
> P.S. Isn’t “ Le Conte de Café?” the _best_ name, my sister makes the most elegant puns.


	11. In which a kiss is returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might just be the most indulgent sugary fluff I have ever written...

 

Montparnasse wanders idly through the kitchen while Jehan makes sandwiches. He’d offer to help, but up until now he’s been too lazy to learn how to cook and Jehan is so skilful he’d definitely just slow them down. Montparnasse is relieved that they look a lot less jittery than they did just now.

“You want butter on yours?” they ask pleasantly.

“No thanks,” he replies, trying to get a glimpse of their expression without being too obvious.

He wonders exactly how scared they have been. And what had they been most afraid of. Was it that they had glamoured him, or that he would be angry with them for it? Montparnasse buries idly inspects the colourful tea towels hanging on their hooks and bites his lip. Should he tell Jehan about Chetta? He still hadn’t made his mind up about that. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to offend them, but if Jehan had been so scared themself… No, better let the mood lighten now. They can have that conversation another time. He glances back at Jehan. Well, there is something he wants to ask.

“Jehan?” he hums.

“Yes?” they say, carefully slicing an avocado.

“What would you say to me bringing the guys round here sometime?”

Jehan lowers their knife and smiles at him. “I’d like that,” they say. “Really.”

Montparnasse grins. “Good, I’ll drag them along one of these days.”

The smile on Jehan’s face flickers, but then they ask with an awkward smile: “You mean that figuratively, right?”

“Yes,” Montparnasse smirks. “I couldn’t drag Gueul anywhere.”

Jehan smiles and goes back to slicing. “If they don’t want to come they don’t have to though,” they say cautiously.

Well, so much for lightening the mood. “Sous wants to,” Montparnasse says, trying to sound as casual as possible. Let’s not make a big deal about this too. “Jon is up for anything. Babet will drag his ass here if I ask him to and Gueul will come if Sous goes.”

The avocado is done, but Jehan does not look away from the cutting board. “Gueul wouldn’t be afraid of me, would he?” they ask quietly.

“No,” Montparnasse says firmly and Jehan glances up at him. “He won’t be,” Montparnasse adds. He has hinted to Jehan before that Gueulemer is just a tad paranoid sometimes. “Not when he’s met you.” Which is exactly why he should.

“Well,” Jehan says, smile a little wider and a litter warmer. “I’d love to meet them all.”

Montparnasse nods and goes back to peeking in cupboards and drawers.

“What are you looking for?” Jehan giggles after a while.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Montparnasse hums. He’s just keeping busy. If he doesn’t, he might just stare at Jehan the whole time. They look really good in that dress. “Stuff to steal?”

Jehan snorts. “There’s an almond cake on the top shelf there. You can steal that.”

Montparnasse grabs the cake off the indicated shelf and puts it down on the counter. It looks delicious.

“It needs a dusting of sugar still,” Jehan tells him and they point at another cupboard.

Montparnasse pulls it open and glances at the labels. He grabs the powdered sugar and unscrews the top. “This, right?” he says, turning it over above the cake.

“No!” Jehan’s hand shoots out, but it’s too late. There’s a big puff of white sugary dust and Montparnasse holds his breath and squints his eyes shut. The sugar settles like snow.

‘The distributor cap on that one is broken,” Jehan says, trying not to laugh.

“Well,” Montparnasse says slowly, putting the sugar down. There is sugar everywhere. Mostly in a big heap on the cake, but all over the counter and him too. Damn, and he wore a nice dark shirt too.

“I didn’t even mean that sugar,” Jehan says, voice trembling with repressed laughter, and they come with a dry kitchen towel to dust him off.

Montparnasse sighs dramatically and bows his head so they can try to get the sugar out of his hair. It seems ruining shirts is just something that happens around Jehan. But they’re laughing now, so it’s kind of worth it.

Very carefully Jehan swats at Montparnasse’s hair with the towel. They giggle when he snorts at the small cloud of sugar and he looks up to scowl at them a little. He hadn’t quite expected their face to be this close. He can see every long lash framing their brown eyes, every freckle on their fair skin. Montparnasse stares. If he leans forward just a little, their lips would be touching… Jehan looks back at him, eyes wide for a moment and then they draw back. Montparnasse’s hand moves forward to stop them before he realizes it. He manages to change it into a grab for the towel just in time.

“Oh,” Jehan mumbles when his hand brushes against their fingers and they let go of the towel. “…sorry.”

Montparnasse represses a grimace. Fuck, he’s making this awkward. And it was going so well. His heart is beating so loudly he’s sure he can hear rather than feel it.

Jehan has turned away from him, shuffling their feet.

Montparnasse searches for something to say, preferably something clever and tension breaking, but suddenly Jehan spins around to face him and blurts out:

“There was another thing I wanted to talk about!”

He blinks, slightly startled by the almost frantic look on their face. “Okay, shoot,” he says.

“It wasn’t just the dancing I was worried about,” Jehan gulps, looking like they have half a mind to just run out of the door.

Montparnasse is at a lost. Jehan looks _scared_. What did he do?

“I’m not dangerous!” Jehan says frantically. “I’ve got my magic under control! Usually. Normally. It’s just that-”

They are turning redder by the second and suddenly a thought slips into Montparnasse’s mind that is just a little too good to be true. Jehan is still talking though and with every word that thought becomes a little less unbelievable.

“Emotions and magic can get jumbled up and when you first walked into the café you were already…well…you,” Jehan stammers. “But then I got to know you and-” They swallow. “I think I’m in- I mean…I have feelings for you?”

Montparnasse wants to answer something. If only to dispel the anxious look on their face, but he can’t speak right now. His body is catching up with his ears and his heart is picking up speed like mad. Jehan has feelings for him. Jehan nearly admitted to being in _love_ with him. Jehan, actually in love with him. And they are looking at him like he might _disapprove_.

“I know this is probably weird,” they mutter. “And I’m sorry for telling you like this, but I had to. Because I _am_ Fae and you should know.” They cast down their eyes. “Of course I won’t expect you to-”

“Will you go out with me?” Montparnasse interrupts. He’s finally regained control over his muscles again, well, apart from the grin that’s spreading across his face. He couldn’t get rid of that if he tried.

“What?” Jehan stammers, eyes darting to his.

“Go out with me,” Montparnasse repeats, throwing the dish towel aside. “Dinner, candles, a movie. Whatever you want. Every night if you want.” Montparnasse is not the type of person to doubt himself, but he is self-aware enough to know that this should not have happened to him. He should not be standing in front of someone like Jehan convincing _them_ that he might be interested in them.

Jehan stares at him, understanding slowly dawning on their gorgeous face.

He grins at them.

“You like me back?” they whisper.

“That’s an understatement, but yes, I do,” Montparnasse says seriously. He wants to touch Jehan. Grab their hands, stroke their hair, but he doesn’t feel like he can do that. Not yet.

“I-” Jehan begins, bewildered.

“You haven’t said yes yet,” Montparnasse reminds them.

“Yes!” they cry. “Yes I’ll go out with you!”

Montparnasse feels something explode in his chest and he’s so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces to feel the sugar between his fingers.

Jehan laughs, half-nervous, half-delighted. “But…would you really want to?” they say hesitantly, reining in the excitement that was dancing in their eyes a moment ago. “I mean…what if I…” They shut their mouth, looking unhappy.

Montparnasse looks at Jehan’s worried face and feels uncertain. Surely they don’t need to be quite so anxious? They already know they didn’t do anything wrong. If he’s being honest, the idea of them being unable to control their magic around him because of how much they like him is insanely flattering. He opens his mouth to joke about having his ego stroked, but suddenly he remembers something. Another jokey remark gone wrong.

One time when Brujon had just moved in with him and the rest of the guys, he had completely lost it over an offhand remark from Gueulemer. Brujon had told them he was going out with some girl and Gueulemer had told him to have fun and had added: “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Brujon had gotten so angry it took both Claquesous and Montparnasse to keep him away from Gueulemer. They barely knew what to do with him, until Claquesous guessed that Brujon thought Gueulemer meant his magic would mean he’d get lucky with his date. After Gueulemer protested that he hadn’t meant that at all, Brujon had calmed down and muttered something about how he’d rather never get laid in his life than having to think his luck had anything to do with it.

It must be like that for Jehan, Montparnasse realizes. Having the fear that people like you because they can’t help it, instead of because they want to. “Hey,” he says softly and this time he reaches out for their hand. “I should tell you. Sous was afraid you might have glamoured me. I got angry with him for not trusting you.”

“Oh,” Jehan says, eyes widening. “Oh I’m sorry! He was only looking out for you.”

“I know,” Montparnasse says, waving the hand that isn’t gently squeezing Jehan’s fingers. “He’s a sap. Point is that he took me to see a clairvoyant. She told me there wasn’t any glamour on me. I’m sure she’ll help us again if you’re ever worried. So we’ll have help on both sides, if you think it’s necessary.”

Jehan looks relieved, but not much. They look down at the hand Montparnasse is holding.

Montparnasse lowers his voice a little. “What are you afraid of?” he asks. He needs to know what to say or do to turn that anxiety into excitement again. For the first time in his life Montparnasse wishes he had the kind of magic that makes other people feel what you feel. He’s never seen much use for those softer types of magic, but right now…

“I don’t even know exactly,” Jehan laughs awkwardly.

Montparnasse pulls gently on their hand and they step a little closer. What could he say to convince Jehan that they caught his eye before they had even spoken a word? If he had met them in a bar or a club, he would have asked them out in a heartbeat. He’s kind of glad he didn’t though. Because he would have asked them out for the wrong reasons, or at least not for all the right reasons. “For what it’s worth,” he says. “I probably would have asked you out ages ago if I had thought you’d say yes.”

♣

Jehan blinks in astonishment. They’re not convinced they heard that right. If they’re completely honest, they have yet to come to terms with most of the content of this conversation. Still, one thing at the time. “Why did you think I wouldn’t?” they ask, wide-eyed.

Montparnasse glances away for a moment and plays a little with their fingers.

Jehan holds their breath, his hands are _so_ soft.

“I kind of didn’t think you were interested in…all that,” he mutters. He looks at them searchingly. “I thought faeries – or you – might not-”

“Oh,” Jehan blushes and Montparnasse thankfully breaks off the sentence. “No, I do,” Jehan says embarrassedly. “At least, I think I do? I’ve never-” They let out a nervous laugh. “This is new.” Awkward as this makes them feel though, it also makes them feel better. They think of every single time Montparnasse made them blush. All the teasing jokes and compliments. They smile at him

Montparnasse is looking at them with delight, but suddenly his face changes. “Wait…” he says. “Never? You mean... You mean that time I kissed you, that was your first kiss?” He sounds genuinely shocked.

Jehan really wishes they would stop blushing, if only for a second. “Eh, yes,” they say.

“I’m sorry?” Montparnasse says, looking slightly bewildered.

His face is such a picture of contradictions that a laugh sparks inside Jehan and they let it ring out freely. “You don’t look very sorry,” they say. Happiness is starting to bubble inside of them, brighter and brighter.

“Well, no,” Montparnasse admits. “That’s because I’m not, but I would be if I was a less selfish person. A kiss is one thing, but a _first_ kiss really isn’t something you should…you know.”

“Steal?” Jehan smiles.

He runs his hand through his hair and grins, partly pleased and partly embarrassed.

Jehan looks at him. At the mix of emotions on his face, the shine to his eyes, all the features they have admired from the start and grown to love over time. They remember that face moving swiftly towards them when they did not know it so well. They remember those curved lips pressing against their own. A kiss traded and a first kiss stolen simultaneously. “I know how you could make it up to me…” they say quietly.

“How?” Montparnasse asks, eyes fixing on them.

“Give me my second one?”

The expression on Montparnasse’s face softens to an amused delight. He reaches out and gently places a hand against Jehan’s cheek. His fingertips come to rest just below their ear and Jehan feels their skin almost hum. They move towards each other ever so slightly.

“Um, wait,” Jehan mutters. The happiness is doing its level best to replace the anxiousness, but it hasn’t quite succeeded yet.

Montparnasse draws back a little. “Yeah?”

Jehan glances around. “I…I don’t want us to…” This is so complicated. They want this. All of this. But they want it to be right. And good. And…equal. In an impulse they turn around, towards the counter they were just leaning against. Montparnasse retracts his hand and they are infinitely sorry for it, but they don’t change their mind now. With their index finger they write two words into the sugar dusted across the counter: JEAN PROUVAIRE.

Montparnasse stares at the name written on the counter. “Why…?” he begins, sounding truly baffled.

“It is not a trade,” Jehan says hastily. Their brown eyes turned towards him with nearly anxious sincerity. “It’s freely given. Because I don’t ever want you to think that I could… That you wouldn’t be able to-” They stop talking and give him a pleading look. They can’t say it out loud, but they need Montparnasse to understand that they can be trusted. And that he can keep their name as a token of faith.

Montparnasse silently looks from the name to Jehan and back again. “Jean Prouvaire,” he says slowly and Jehan feels their skin tingle. They have not heard that name spoken in-

With a sudden movement and a cloud of sugar Montparnasse wipes the letters away. His eyes fix on Jehan with a dark brightness they have never seen before and he asks urgently: “Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes,” they breathe and a moment later Montparnasse’s mouth is on theirs. Without even thinking about it Jehan throws their arms around his neck and leans into him. A warm, buzzing, glorious happiness is washing over them like liquid sunshine and they are blissfully free of any fear of their own glamour. Whatever this is, they are creating it together.

Montparnasse pulls them a little closer, one hand at their face, the other resting on their waist. Suddenly his lips smile against theirs and he pulls away.

“What?” Jehan asks laughingly, a slight hitch in their breath.

“Your name is Jean and you chose the name Jehan?” Montparnasse asks. He looks as amused as he looks happy. Both a great deal.

“It’s a good chosen name,” Jehan protests. “Who is ever going to guess my given name is so close to it?”

“Fair enough,” Montparnasse grins.

Jehan looks up at him and there is so much happiness inside them they’re sure that if they don’t do something about it they might make summer arrive early in the whole of Paris.

“So…” Montparnasse says, dark lights dancing in his eyes. “Did I give you back your kiss? Is that how it works?”

Jehan laughs, softly, and shakes their head. “No…” they say, looking into his eyes. “No, it doesn’t…”

Carefully, very carefully, they slide their arms down from around Montparnasse’s neck and place their hands at either side of his face.

♣

Kissing Jehan almost pales in comparison to being kissed by Jehan. Their hands gently move from his cheek to the back of his neck and back again, fingers tracing lines that aren’t there and Montparnasse can’t think anymore. His mind is full with the feeling of Jehan’s soft lips that press first against his cheeks, then the corners of his mouth, finally his lips. He doesn’t even realize he’s opened his eyes until he sees Jehan’s brown eyes looking back at him. They look _happy_. He smiles.

“What?” Jehan asks. Their voice sounds open and unrestrained and there’s a melodic quality to it that Montparnasse is sure he’s heard before, but never quite like this.

“You,” he replies. “Just you…” He grins. “And the fact that you’ve got sugar on you too now.”

“Where?” Jehan laughs, looking down at their clothes.

“Here,” Montparnasse grins and he kisses the cheek that his hand left a smudge of white powder on.

Jehan laughs again and before Montparnasse can do it, they slant their head and kiss him on his open mouth. Montparnasse leans them back against the counter and almost lets out a sigh as he feels Jehan’s hand slide into his hair. Jehan tastes like spilled sugar and sunlight twinkling in hazel eyes. Like honey made from the wildflower smell clinging to their hair.

They break apart for air and Jehan’s lips are so red Montparnasse presses a short, peck of a kiss on them just because he can’t help himself.

Jehan beams at him and suddenly they flush and a merry laugh rolls off their lips and fills the whole kitchen.

Montparnasse can feel it echo in his insides and because there’s no reason not to, he laughs with them. “What was that for?” he asks, grinning.

“Well…” Jehan says, eyes shining with an embarrassed sort of joy. “You know that wisteria outside the café?”

“Yeah?” Montparnasse says, slightly puzzled.

“That…kind of started growing after I met you,” Jehan says, lips trembling with a smile.

Montparnasse draws up his eyebrows. It’s not very surprising that Jehan can make plants grow faster than they usually would, after all they are a- He looks at the expression on their face and opens his mouth.

“I _didn’t_ grow it on purpose,” Jehan says deliberately. “And I laughed just now because I really hope it isn’t currently growing out of control winding around the entire building.”

Montparnasse looks at him with unrestrained delight. “You _accidentally_ covered your café in blue flowers because of _me_ ,” he says.

Jehan huffs through their smile.

“Amazing,” Montparnasse declares. “And I haven’t even paid proper attention to it! Let’s go look at my tree.” He turns resolutely towards the kitchen door.

“No…” Jehan groans laughingly and they catch him by the hand and pull him back.

Montparnasse very willingly lets himself be pulled against them and grins down on Jehan. “Is this going to be a thing?” he teases. “Will there be roses bursting into bloom if I take you out?”

“Stop it…” they whine. “It’s embarrassing.”

It’s the cutest thing Montparnasse has ever heard. “Okay,” he grins. “But only if you can think of something better to do.”

Later Montparnasse will pretend not to remember what they did then, just so Jehan will tell him about it. Because what they do is very little and all of it perfect.

First they shake the sugar out of their hair and clothes. (Montparnasse carefully hangs Jehan’s mismatched cardigan on a hook with the aprons instead of giving it back to them and luckily they don’t seem to miss it.) They eat their sandwiches, which have thankfully been spared from the sugar rain. They salvage the poor almond cake and pretend to clean the kitchen, while getting hardly anything done. Because every opportunity Montparnasse gets to touch Jehan, even if it’s just in passing, he takes. Not only because he has been wanting to touch them for so long and he finally knows he can, but also because every time he does it there is a small burst of happiness in Jehan’s countenance. With every kiss, every squeeze, every careful touch of Jehan’s hair that spark grows a little brighter, until Jehan’s hands are on Montparnasse as much as his are on them.

Neither of them is aware of the time until hours later, when Jehan is sitting on Montparnasse’s lap on a kitchen chair. It’s well past five already. At least that’s what Montparnasse’s watch tells them.

“I hadn’t realized…” Jehan says laughingly, happiness all diffused on their glowing face.

Montparnasse grins. “I’m a thief,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against their temple. “And I’ll be stealing a lot more of your time from now on.” There is easiness between them now. Montparnasse can feel it in the warmth as he pulls Jehan closer and he is damn near drunk on it.

Jehan lets out a soft, pearly laugh. “You keep saying you’re the thief,” they say, leaning their forehead against Montparnasse’s with a smile that he would willingly look at for the rest of his days. “But I’m the one that stole away the most beautiful, charming, wonderful mortal there ever was.”

“Is that so?” Montparnasse smirks, but he protests only to see the mischievous glint in Jehan’s eyes spark a little brighter. He can’t deny he’s been stolen and he has no wish to deny it. He’ll be Jehan’s as long as they want him.

Jehan’s expression softens again and they sigh happily. The way they are sitting on Montparnasse’s lap makes it seem like they belong there and like no other seat will suit them now they’ve found this spot. They glance at his watch again and murmur: “Will…will your friends be worried if you’re not home soon?”

Montparnasse laughs. “No,” he says amusedly. “I was planning on being here a while actually.”

Jehan flushes happily and to Montparnasse’s delight and further amusement they ask: “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Dinner sounds good,” he smiles. He knows Jehan isn’t the innocent creature they seem to be, really Montparnasse has known that from the start, but he’d almost forget it. With them making a proposition as innocent as that with their cheeks burning red.

But Jehan’s eyes are twinkling with a hidden joy that is almost suggestive. “That means staying after sundown,” they say quietly.

Montparnasse hadn’t realized that. He grins. “It does… Does that mean I get to find out what’s so special about faeries in the dark?”

The smile on Jehan’s face now perfectly matches the look in their eyes. “Nothing much,” they say sweetly. “Not in Paris at least. There is no real dark of night in the city.”

“Hmm,” Montparnasse hums. “Pity.” He gives them a thoughtful look. “I get the feeling you want me to ask what Paris _does_ have…”

Montparnasse manages to keep his grin in check. Jehan is flirting with him. They’re doing it sitting on his lap and with their lips still plump from kissing him, but they _are_ flirting. “Tell me,” he smiles. “What _is_ real in Paris, if not the dark of night?”

Jehan’s eyes are large and dark. “The gloaming,” they whisper.

Montparnasse slants his head. He’s never seen anything particularly special about the grey twilight falling over the city. He prefers the Parisian brand of night, full of lively lights that make the shadows darker. But whatever Jehan is thinking of, if it makes their eyes shine like that, he wants to see it. “Show me then,” he coaxes.

“Oh I will,” Jehan says, their playfulness shifting more towards their usual cheerfulness. “But let’s make dinner while we wait.” They hop off Montparnasse’s lap and hold out their hand to him.

“I hope you mean you’ll make dinner while I keep my hands thoroughly to myself this time,” Montparnasse grimaces, getting to his feet also. He takes their hand and grins. “Well…I’ll keep my hands off the _cooking_.” To his intense gratification, Jehan still flushes scarlet.

Still, they’re not tongue-tied. “I’ll give better instructions this time,” they snort. “Come on.”

They go up to Jehan’s apartment, which is just like Montparnasse remembers it (apart from it being tidier than last time.) It does look a little different though. The many plants look even greener than they did last time, something about the air feels almost soft. Or maybe that’s just how he feels around Jehan. Jehan, who is happily digging kitchen utensils out of a drawer.

“Are you going to help or not?” they joke.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Montparnasse grins, walking over to give them a hand.

“That’s my line,” Jehan chuckles.

They cook together. Montparnasse chops vegetables while Jehan mixes together what they say will be a quiche.

“Have I ever told you you’re beautiful?” Montparnasse says when Jehan slides it into the oven. His tone isn’t teasing or provoking. It’s an honest question. He’s thought it a million times, but maybe he’s never said it. He should have. And he will. So many times more. It’s not the most important thing about Jehan, not even close, but stars above is it true.

Jehan shakes their head, almost shy.

“You are,” he says sincerely. “Utterly beautiful.”

Jehan looks at him with a smile that might mean a million different things. “We should open the windows,” they say suddenly and they quietly move past Montparnasse into the living room, where they throw open the windows.

Montparnasse follows, slightly bemused. “Why is that s-”

He stops. The sun has gone down. In the tiny kitchen the lights are on. In the rest of the apartment they are not. Jehan is standing by the open window, a sweet smell drifting past them that Montparnasse can’t quite place. With a movement so graceful it should be the start of a dance Jehan turns to face him and for a moment Montparnasse’s mind goes quiet. He has been wrong all his life. Twilight in Paris isn’t grey. It’s every colour of the day, draped in the fast approaching shadows of the night. But the shadows dare not touch Jehan. Their vibrant being refuses to be muted and they _shimmer_. Montparnasse stares at them and yes, he understands the danger of faeries after sundown now. If he had not been in love with Jehan already, he would have been utterly lost now.

Slowly his ability to form words returns to him. He swallows. “What did you call this again?” he asks.

Jehan smiles. Their smile hangs tangible in the air and this time Montparnasse is sure he feels the atmosphere change. “The gloaming,” they say.

“Gloaming,” he repeats. He lets the word hang in the wonderfully charged air. _Gloaming_.

♣

The feeling of letting their magic surround them freely is as new to Jehan as the feelings called forth by Montparnasse’s admiring eyes. They do not take their own eyes off him and the look in his eyes is only part of the reason. Montparnasse is clad in shadows. He almost looks like a shadow himself when he walks towards them with soundless feet. He can walk so very stealthily. A thief’s feet, Jehan thinks adoringly. And then Montparnasse’s slender fingers are twining in their hair and they give up thinking for a while. Slowly they wrap their arms around Montparnasse’s neck and raise their face to his. He presses an almost dreamy kiss on their lips and Jehan lengthens it by leaning into him just enough to make Montparnasse move one hand to the small of their back to steady them. Jehan sways, gently guiding Montparnasse to follow them with nothing more than the movement itself and Montparnasse follows. The gloaming has a song. Jehan has danced to it countless times, but never like this. As they move they think Montparnasse must hear the melody too, because his body moves just right. Or perhaps that is because they are moving as one. This is not a dance like the last time – and not just because Jehan is still wearing their shoes – but it is beautiful. Jehan can feel it fill them up inside and they hold on to Montparnasse a little tighter. There is _such_ love swirling inside of them and they want to tell Montparnasse. They have told him so many things today, but not that. Not yet. And oh, how they want to. But words feel heavy. Too heavy for a moment like this. Too heavy for Jehan to give to Montparnasse who is quick to laugh and to joke and who might not want to hear them. Not now. Not yet. So they just dance.

Around them the Parisian night sets in in full and Jehan has to admit, night looks good on Montparnasse. Even with the spell of dusk fading they stay right where they are, swaying in place, wrapped in each other’s arms. Just when Jehan rests their head against Montparnasse’s shoulder there is an unceremonious ring from the kitchen and they both laugh.

Jehan tries to let go of Montparnasse, but he only pulls them closer.

“The quiche is done,” they remind him.

“Fine,” Montparnasse sighs. “But I’m only letting you go because I’m hungry.”

Jehan darts into the kitchen and quickly grabs two plates.

“Jehan, your candles are not magic, are they?” Montparnasse calls from the living room.

“No?” they call back, turning off the oven. “Not on their own anyway. Why?”

There’s no answer, but when Jehan returns with two plates of quiche and a handful of cutlery, the windows are partially closed and Montparnasse has lit every candle he could find. They must have taken some finding too, because Jehan delights in hiding their candles in little glasses and lanterns scattered across their shelves and furniture. There are quite a few of them and together they light the room up very nicely.

“I think I said something about dinner and candles,” Montparnasse grins, putting his lighter back in his pocket.

“You did,” Jehan grins and this time it feels like they have to physically swallow the words jumping to their lips.

They hand Montparnasse his plate and he takes it with an appreciative nod, sitting down on a chair Jehan rescued from being thrown away one day. He looks up at them with a strange, half-repressed smile.

“What? Jehan asks gently, sitting down as well.

“Nothing,” Montparnasse hums. He leans back in his chair and says: “Next time you must tell me what you’re cooking, I’ll bring wine to match.”

“I don’t really know anything about wine,” Jehan smiles.

Montparnasse lets out an exaggerated gasp. “That is absolutely unacceptable.”

“You can teach me,” Jehan says laughingly. “I’m a fast learner.” They quickly lean forward, coming out of their seat and press a kiss on the corner of Montparnasse’s mouth. “See?”

To their utter delight they actually see the slightest hint of colour on Montparnasse’s cheeks.

“Do you want me to give your cooking the attention it deserves?” Montparnasse says slowly. “Because if I have to choose between eating and holding you…”

Jehan grins. Giddiness bubbling inside their chest. “You can do both,” they say and they pick up their plate and get to their feet. “Come on!”

Montparnasse follows him, also carrying his plate and they change from the chairs to the bed. Sitting on the mattress with their legs drawn up they can lean against each other while holding their plates on their laps. Near perfect eating arrangements Jehan thinks. Besides, this quiche won’t crumb, they baked it themself.

“Better?” Jehan asks.

“Hmm,” Montparnasse hums, stealing a bit off their plate despite having more than enough left on his own.

When the plates are empty they move to the floor and Jehan moves into Montparnasse’s arms.

“Is there a time limit to how long I can stay?” he asks, sighing a little as Jehan puts their head against his chest.

“What do you mean?” Jehan mutters.

“I don’t know,” Montparnasse says vaguely. “Stroke of midnight?”

Jehan smiles against his shirt. “You can stay as long as you like, Parnasse,” they say softly. “And you can leave whenever you want.” They pull away a little to smile at him and then let their gaze drop again. Around the collar of Montparnasse’s shirt they can just see the hint of red and black betraying the roses blooming on his chest.

Montparnasse’s hand drifts to their face and gently presses against their neck and cheek. Jehan feels his breath against their ear on the other side and expects a kiss. Instead, Montparnasse’s lips move, almost touching their ear, breathing rather than speaking his words.

“I’ll never want to leave you, Jehan Prouvaire.”

Jehan lifts up their eyes, looking straight into Montparnasse’s. The green looks quiet and dark. “I like that…” they say softly. “Jehan Prouvaire…” Names… names are a strange thing.

Montparnasse smiles. “I’ve done my level best never to have to leave you,” he reminds them. “I broke every single faerie rule. Well, apart from the name one. Technically.”

Jehan smirks. “You did though…” They grin.

“What do you mean?” Montparnasse asks, stretching his feet out comfortably.

“You _did_ tell me your true name,” Jehan says and their mind glows golden with the truth of it. “Right the first time we met. Not your given name perhaps, but your true name even so.”

Montparnasse’s hand idly plays with a strand of their hair. The smile on his face has turned into a grin. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

Jehan laughs. At the world in general, from pure happiness.

Various expressions are flickering past Montparnasse’s beautiful face and Jehan looks at them without a single care in the world. The gentle flames and the green plants breathe with them in the cosy room and the air carries just a hint of the scent of wisteria.

“Jehan?” Montparnasse breaks the warm silence.

“Yes?” they say softly. Montparnasse touches their face and they properly meet his eyes again.

He looks at them with that delicate half-smile from before. “Speaking of rules and consequences… What’s the price for loving a faerie?”

The world is all vibrant colours and light. Jehan glows at its centre and Montparnasse is the most gorgeous, shining darkness that they have ever known. They smile, gazing up into Montparnasse’s eyes and this time the words aren’t heavy at all:

“That they love you back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always hurts my heart when writers end a story just when all the outrageous happiness is about to start, so this story will have an epilogue! It’s only short and schoolwork permitting it will be up in a few days, but for now, let’s just bask in that moment a little longer <3


	12. In which an epilogue is given

It is a wonderful sunny Friday, warm light is streaming in through every window. The café is pleasantly busy and while they serve their customers Jehan looks back at the past week with unrestrained delight. It has been filled with new and wonderful things. And not just the kisses and late night walks and talks with Montparnasse (although there has been a lot of that). There were other things too. Like getting to tell an overjoyed Feuilly about everything. And being texted out of the blue by Sous with a veiled compliment that could also be construed as a threat, before being asked rather shy questions about having Fae blood. And meeting Montparnasse’s friend Jon, who came into the café with a vaguely familiar-looking girl that he called Princess so often Jehan had to ask whether that was her name or a term of endearment. It turned out to be her usual nickname. Jehan knows this now because they _asked_. Something they never would have done before. But the world seems simpler now. Staying quiet and hidden suddenly doesn’t seem all that important anymore. Maybe it’s not so bad to be known. To be valued for what they are. Jehan smiles at themself, the world and everyone in it from behind the counter. They feel so light that they occasionally feel the urge to check whether their feet are actually touching the ground. That isn’t strictly necessary though and they know it. Their magic has settled around this new glow of happiness and it isn’t acting up anymore. Jehan did have a stern conversation with the wisteria yesterday, which has nearly reached the roof of the building by now. It’s stopped growing since and seems content the way it is. Jehan can relate.

The door to the café opens and in another display of breaking routine the Wednesday regulars come in. They have brought their friend R with them again. Together with Courf his animated conversation fills the little café with excitement and Jehan’s spirits rise even higher.

“What a nice surprise to see you twice in one week!” they exclaim. They look at R and add warmly: “And you for the second time.”

All four of them reply with a blur of friendly comments that eventually give rise to Ange remarking almost apologetically:

“I’ve just realized I do not even know what you like to be called.”

Jehan smiles. That is true. They know all their names, but they don’t know theirs. “You can call me Jehan,” they say cheerfully. “And what will it be today?”

After some compliments on the suitability of what they assume is their nickname they all order elaborate coffees and Jehan assures them they will bring them over as soon as they’re done.

“No need for that,” Ferre offers readily. “It’s clearly busy today, I’ll wait and carry them.”

He nods to the others to go and Jehan is too touched to protest.

The other three pick a table and sit down. As they watch them choose their seats Jehan thinks Ange seems in much better humour with R than last time. Happily they start preparing the drinks, sprinkling them all liberally with all the good their magic is humming with today. While they work they occasionally glance at Ferre, who is leaning on the counter and has opened his book.

Jehan has seen him with it often enough. It’s called “Between Lore and Logic” and it has all the tell-tale signs of an occult textbook. It looks like a very grand and serious book and it is probably not much used to being lugged about and read on coffee shop counters.

“What are you reading about?” Jehan ask nonchalantly, placing the finished drinks on a tray.

“Oh,” Ferre smiles. “Faeries actually.” He smiles apologetically, probably remembering their last exchange on the subject.

“That’s so interesting,” Jehan says brightly, doing their best to dispel the uneasiness.

“Well, I think so,” Ferre smiles. “It’s a very old book though. A lot of the information must be outdated.”

Jehan glances at the page. There are illustrations. “May I see?” they ask curiously. Just like they like their songs, the stories and pictures of faeries by humans always amuse them.

“Of course,” Ferre says and he turns the book, clearly pleased they are showing an interest.

With a smile dancing around their lips Jehan inspects the drawing. It’s meant to be a troop of faeries dancing. They’re beautiful, but their faces are on the mean side. All of them have long hair and all of them have big, pointy ears. The thought of creatures like that living in Paris, making coffee, is preposterous. It almost makes Jehan laugh. The merriment bubbles inside them and strangely and wonderfully they do not feel the need to hold their tongue. They swallow the laugh, but not the words.

“Would you look at that, “ they say pleasantly. “They do always exaggerate our ears.”

“Yes, I do wonder about that,” Ferre says earnestly. “If all Fae had pointy ears, they would be easier to s-” He trails off and his eyes dart from the book to Jehan’s face. “Wh-what did you say?”

Jehan smiles. “That they always exaggerate the ears,” they repeat innocently.

“Right…” Ferre mutters. “Yeah…”

“Ferre, what’s keeping you?” Courf calls out from the table. “Do you need help carrying?”

“What?” he says distractedly. “No, I-” His eyes dart to Jehan again.

Courf comes bounding up to the counter. “That smells _divine_ ,” he gushes.

“Why thank you!” Jehan beams at him. “They’re made with a lot of love.”

“I’ll say,” Courf says earnestly. “You make the _best_ drinks and pastries. No joke.” His eyes fly over the assorted goods. “I said I wouldn’t but could I have a piece of baked chocolate mousse anyway?”

“Of course,” Jehan smiles. “These are also made with love.”

“Isn’t everything?” Courf grins.

“Oh no,” Jehan replies cheerfully. “Most of the pastries are made with happiness.”

Courf laughs but Ferre is still clutching his book and his face is full of confusion that he’s trying very hard to hide. Between them they pick up the cups and the added charge of Courf’s plate and turn away from the counter.

“Enjoy!” Jehan chimes.

Ferre looks back wide-eyed and Jehan winks. He gives them a smile that is trembling with uncertainty, but that clearly has the beginnings of excitement buried beneath it.

Jehan turns away with a smile of their own. Their insides are swirling with unconcerned joy and they bask in their own bravery. Their smile widens. Ferre will come back to talk to them, they are sure of that. Perhaps he deserves to find out…perhaps he will be a new friend.

“ _You_ are looking positively impish.”

Delightedly Jehan spins around to see Montparnasse approaching the counter. He is clad in black that looks impossibly soft to the touch and is wearing his most handsome smirk.

“And you-” Jehan says lovingly. “-look like an angel freshly fallen.”

“I would never have expected your kind to believe in angels,” Montparnasse teases, lowering his voice a little.

“I never used to, no,” Jehan smiles and they press a quick, but teasing kiss on Montparnasse’s cheeks.  From the corner of their eye Jehan sees the woman called Zeph nudge her friends and over the clutter of cups at the other table they’re sure they can hear a smothered: “ _Finally_.”

When they pull away they are keenly aware of Ange’s slightly startled eyes, fixed on them with strong surprise. They pretend not to see. Montparnasse, however, turns his head and smirks very deliberately in his direction. Ange clears his throat and struggles to jump back into the conversation Courf and R are carrying pretty much on their own. (Ferre _is_ taking part, but it is clear he is rather distracted.)

“What are you smiling at?” Montparnasse asks, looking smugly delighted himself.

“Oh, nothing at all,” Jehan says, smile teetering on the edge of a grin.

Montparnasse leans leisurely on the counter and Jehan is pretty sure that at least one customer that was about to ask for a refill, has now suddenly decided to be in a little less of a hurry.

“Gueul agreed to come over next week,” Montparnasse says. “Babet and Sous too, of course.”

“Oh that’s great,” Jehan says eagerly. They so want to get to know all of Montparnasse’s friends. “Do they know what day?”

“Kind of depends on you,” Montparnasse smiles.

“Tuesday afternoon?” Jehan suggests. “It’s usually pretty quiet then.” They blush in happy expectation. Hopefully Gueul and Babet will like them, although they suspect Montparnasse won’t leave them much choice.

“I thought…” Montparnasse beings slowly, gently calling their attention back to him. “That maybe we could go out this Sunday.”

Out… There are nerves low in Jehan’s stomach, but the happy bravery hasn’t faded yet. They would _love_ to go out with Montparnasse. “Out where?” they ask curiously.

“Wherever you want really,” Montparnasse says, clearly pleased that they are inclined to agree to his plan. “But maybe…you’d like to see a little of the occult side of Paris? The human side I mean…” He grins and lowers his voice a little more. “There’s a club I think you might like…”

“One of the hidden places in Paris?” Jehan asks quietly, their eyes twinkling as they remember the first ever time Montparnasse leaned across their counter.

“Exactly,” he grins.

Jehan thinks of exploring the city with Montparnasse by their side and smiles. They do not know the hidden places of Paris, but they’re certain they have as many secrets to show Montparnasse as he does to them. “I would love that,” they say happily.

“Good,” Montparnasse hums, his own happiness swirling almost tangibly around him. He gives one sly glance around the café. No one is watching them now. His green eyes spark in a way that is by now wonderfully familiar to Jehan ay. They know what is coming and they do absolutely nothing to stop it. Montparnasse’s hand reaches out across the counter, fingers quickly curling around the front of Jehan’s apron and he pulls them into a kiss. Jehan kisses back and even though they break apart again almost instantly they both feel the feeling lingering on their lips.

No one saw and yet suddenly everyone in the café is smiling.

Jehan’s smile is the widest of all. They are shining. “So,” they say with eyes as dark as they are bright. “Apart from _that_ -“ For a moment their gaze lingers on Montparnasse’s smirking lips. “-what else are you here for today? Coffee, or a faerie cake?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roll credits!
> 
> This was such fun to write!  
> Thank you Adrian for (accidentally) pushing me to write this and for all your input!  
> And thank you Sis for your invaluable support, wonderful world building and late night proofreading. <3
> 
> I am _staggered_ by the amount of people interested in this fic. Over 100 kudo’s?? Thank you all so much!
> 
> Now it’s really finished I would adore it if you’d leave a comment telling me what you think, there’s nothing like feedback to feed a writer’s creativity! So those of you that left comments along the way: bless you. Speaking of which, those of you that reblogged/liked/left wonderful tags on Tumblr, bless you too. <3
> 
> For the readers that found me on AO3: I post a lot of [ficlets on my tumblr](https://mysunfreckle.tumblr.com/tagged/sunfreckle's+stories) and there is even some [bonus content for this fic](https://mysunfreckle.tumblr.com/tagged/sisterly+seeliecourt) there.
> 
> I’m going to miss writing this, but I’ve got some lovely new ideas lined up and [one started already](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12051993/chapters/27290817)…
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! It has been a pleasure to write for you


	13. Bonus: In which a club is visited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for day 1 of Jehanparnasse week 2017: Magic.  
> Cw: alcohol and…recreational use of magic (?).

There is a pattern to the days and a pattern to the magic held within them. Friday belongs to the Fae, Sunday does not. Jehan respects that and they know better than to try do anything too draining on a Sunday as far as magic is concerned. Today, however, they feel like nothing could possibly drain them. They are walking on Montparnasse’s arm, with a rose he just stole from a garden tucked behind their ear.

Montparnasse chuckles.

“What?” Jehan asks, squeezing his arm.

“That rose wasn’t quite so pretty when I picked it,” he grins. “It’s wilting in reverse.”

Jehan smiles, but doesn’t answer. They are so excited they could glow. “Tell me more about the club!” they say eagerly.

“Patience,” Montparnasse smirks. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“You’re a tease,” Jehan complains, giving Montparnasse a reproachful look.

He smirks a little more and still refuses to talk. All Jehan knows about the place they’re going to is that it is owned by humans who possess sorcery and that it has become one of hidden places in Paris where those that know about magic gather.

“It’s dangerous to leave me alone with my imagination,” Jehan warns their boyfriend. “I might be disappointed.”

They aren’t. At least not when they finally get their first glimpse of the building. Not that it looks particularly special in any way, but Jehan can feel it is. There is no crowd at the door and the sign above it is modest. It reads “Club Destin” in letters that look like they’re melting and about to drip off the wall. That is telling in itself and Jehan can feel the magic that has seeped deep into the ground all around this place. Montparnasse mentioned that it’s two sorceresses that run the club, between them they must have a considerable amount of magic.

“Nervous?” Montparnasse grins as he knocks on the slightly shabby door.

“No,” Jehan lies.

He pulls them a little closer. “You’re going to love it,” he promises.

That is not exactly what Jehan is nervous about. They never really knew any magical humans before they met Montparnasse’s friends… If anything they might like it a little too much.

The door is opened by a young man with bare feet that seems to know Montparnasse on sight.

“Merci,” Montparnasse grins and without waiting for an answer he pulls Jehan down a corridor and before they know it they are surrounded by loud music, dim lights and such a blur of mingled magic that it tingles on their skin.

“Oh,” Jehan breathes, their eyes open wide.

Montparnasse has his arm snugly around their waist, but he gives them time to take it all in while he raises his hand in acknowledgement at a couple of people.

Jehan has never felt so much different magic packed in one space. The air is heavy with it. They realize it can’t feel like this for everyone, humans don’t feel magic the way Fae do, but they have to ask… “Is it always like this?”

Montparnasse follows their gaze through the room. The club is small and filled with every variety of young person. Some of them are dancing, others are lounging on couches in the corners, a few are hanging at the bar. “Pretty much,” he hums.

Jehan feels a burst of heat and movement and turns their head to see a kid that hardly looks old enough to be here snap literal sparks from their fingers. Their blatant display of magic is met with nothing but cheerfulness. Magic being used out in the open, just like that… Jehan looks at Montparnasse, silently, but with eyes shining like stars.

“That’s what this place is about,” he says with a smile. “That and the drinks of course.” His smile turns into a grin. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Still slightly dazed Jehan allows themself to be led to the bar. Behind it a plump woman is just presenting a group of four with two shot glasses each. As soon as they leave she turns towards Montparnasse, looking from him to Jehan with laughing eyes.

“ _Well_ …” she says with a smirk. “I never thought I’d see the day. Parnasse  _arriving_  with someone instead of leaving.”

“Jehan, this is Maggie,” Montparnasse says smoothly, glossing over her teasing. “She runs this place.”

“Tsk,” Maggie tuts. “ _We_  run this place,” and she gestures to a beautiful woman clad in all black that is laughing and talking with some of the patrons.

“Missy looks the part,” Montparnasse grins at Jehan. “But Maggie’s the one with the real talent.”

“Your flattery is of the most insulting kind,” Maggie chides, but Jehan can feel he is right when she smiles at them. Maggie’s magic doesn’t feel like most of the magic in this room. It reminds Jehan more of Sous’ sorcery, strong and very deliberate.

“But,” Maggie says with a smirk. “I suppose it’s true. My drinks are famous.” She winks. “Or they would be if I wasn’t so liberal with my shots of amnesia. So, what can I get you two?”

Montparnasse gives Jehan a questioning look, but Jehan is not ready to answer. They look from Maggie to him and back again. “You sell magic?” they say, blinking at her in wonder. “And people know?”

“That’s what they come here for, honey,” Maggie smiles. “Well, that and some other things.”

Jehan is all amazement. “What sort of stuff can you make?” they ask excitedly. They haven’t tasted human magic since they were very little. No wonder some of their customers could taste the happiness they baked into pastries at their café, if there were actually people selling magic food for the sake of the magic…

“Most things, I’d say,” Maggie replies, looking at Jehan with an increasingly curious expression. “Take a look on the menu.”

Behind the bar there is no mirror like in many other places, nor a blackboard, but above the rows of bottles words seem to have been scorched into the painted surface. Jehan lets their eyes pass over the curved letters. Contentment… Fear… Excitement… Joy… Surprise… They’re not drinks, they’re feelings.

“You might have told your pretty date what you were getting them into,” Maggie reproaches Montparnasse good-naturedly.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he grins.

Jehan beams at him. He must have been  _dying_  to tell them. They’re almost offended he didn’t take them here sooner. Almost. “What do you like?” they ask Montparnasse eagerly, but before he can answer Maggie interjects.

“Why don’t I start you off with something manageable,” she decides for them. “I’ll get you both a glass of light-heartedness.” She gives Jehan a meaningful glance. “You’re new, let’s not overdo it.” She grabs two glasses and nods towards Montparnasse. “ _He_  usually overdoes it.”

“Slander,” Montparnasse scoffs, leaning on the bar without letting his other arm leave Jehan’s waist.

Jehan leans against him, almost giddy with excitement to see Maggie work. She is using the contents of several different coloured bottles to mix them their drinks, but Jehan can tell they are all filled with water. They are impressed. Maggie is probably only putting on a show for the sake of theatricality, she very likely doesn’t need to do this to make her magic work. Jehan knows this type of magic. Once upon a time humans gifted with the talent to brew potions were quite common. The Fae never understood why the mortals insisted on the names. Potions, medicine… It’s all water magic. Water is an especially good conductor of magic, that is why stirring a little extra wakefulness into a cup of coffee takes Jehan no effort at all. Maggie seems to be doing something similar.

“There you go,” she says, sliding the two glasses towards them. “Give that a try.”

Jehan takes their glass while Montparnasse pays and inhales the scent of magic. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. Maggie is watching them very closely and Jehan remembers that most humans cannot smell magic. “You put magic in the water?” they ask, trying to sound surprised as well as fascinated.

“Something like that,” she hums. “Go on, try it.”

Montparnasse raises his own glass and grins at them. “In one go,” he says.

Jehan grins too, tilts the glass back and drains it. The water is cool as it slips down their throat, but it warms them up inside. A laugh jumps to their lips and rings out merrily, making Montparnasse twinkle his eyes at them. “Oh that’s wonderful,” they sigh and they laugh again, because they just can’t help it. They feel so light and unconcerned and there is magic all around them.

“Come on,” Montparnasse says, plucking the glass from their hand and putting it on the bar beside his own. “Want to meet some people?”

“Yes,” Jehan beams, grabbing his hand. “Yes, I do.”

With that lovely light feeling still filling their head, Jehan follows him to one of the couches, where several people raise their heads in acknowledgement when Montparnasse approaches. Jehan isn’t shy, not now, they’re smiling brilliantly and before they realize it they’re chatting to these people like they’ve known them for ages. No one asks them who they are or why they are here and they sit on Montparnasse’s lap like they belong there, because they do. Someone goes to fetch a round of drinks and Jehan learns that Maggie serves normal drinks as well, because Montparnasse is given a white wine and they are offered something fruity that is free of both alcohol and magic. After a while people get up to dance and Jehan pulls Montparnasse to his feet too, because they  _really_  want to dance. They’re not worried their dancing will be a problem. Not because of the light-heartedness, that has worn off by now, but because their faerie magic will hardly be noticeable in this club and besides, Jehan is wearing sturdy ankle boots that weigh down their feet at least a little.

“Having a good time?” Montparnasse mutters, holding them close against him as they move with the music.

“Yes,” Jehan sighs. “Yes, I’m…” They can’t explain what they’re feeling. It’s so much. They wish they could, they wish they could make Montparnasse understand, but- Jehan lifts their head and an eager smile spreads across their face. “I’m going to go get us another drink,” they say. “Hold on…” And they quickly slip out of Montparnasse’s arms and hurry towards the bar, glancing back laughingly when Montparnasse calls after them over the music:

“You better come back soon!”

Jehan sweeps up to the counter and leans on it, eyes still bright with their new idea.

“Having a good time, hon?” Maggie smiles.

“Yes,” Jehan says emphatically.

She chuckles.

Jehan glances behind her for a moment and then they ask: “Can I order something that isn’t on the menu?”

Maggie slants her head and gives them an appraising look. “Sure,” she says. “I like a challenge.” Her eyes narrow for a moment. “But I don’t do love, or lust, or anything like it.”

“Of course not!” Jehan says, startled.

She smirks. “You’d be surprised how many people ask.”

Jehan pulls a face, but then they smile and look back at Montparnasse. “I don’t need that anyway.”

She follows their gaze and makes a soft sound. “No…you don’t,” she hums thoughtfully. Then she turns her smile towards them again and asks: “So what’re you craving?”

Jehan smiles. “Freedom.”

Maggie’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Freedom…” she muses. “That’s not exactly an emotion.”

“Sure it is,” Jehan says. Emotion, feeling, it doesn’t really matter what you call it.

“Hm,” Maggie hums. She seems genuinely puzzled. “I get what you mean,” she says. “But…” She frowns. “I guess I could mix some boldness with a shot of euphoria.”

Jehan nearly clicks their tongue in disapproval. They don’t, but Maggie can clearly read their expression.

“Ok,” she says, a glint of ambition sparking in her eye. “From scratch it is  then. I’ll give it a try.”

“Mind if I watch?” Jehan asks politely.

“I insist,” she says, and she grabs a large glass and two bottles.

Jehan watches her work and breathes in the magic around her. The other drinks she made were made with showy sparkle, this time she’s really trying. Her magic feels heavier, slower. She really is very talented.

Maggie swirls the liquid in the glass counter clockwise and Jehan shakes their head. Her eyes dart up. “What?” she asks.

Jehan didn’t mean to tell her what to do, but it’s clear Maggie has already guessed they know much more about magic than she previously thought so they might as well. “You’re making liberation,” they say gently. “Not freedom.”

Maggie puts the glass down and looks at it. “What’s the difference?” she asks, fascinated.

“We’re all born free,” Jehan says softly. “Liberation shouldn’t be necessary.” That’s the thing about freedom. It’s a memory more than anything else. Of course you can’t make a shot of freedom like you can make a shot of happiness, but you can make something that makes you remember. If only just for a moment.

Maggie gives Jehan a long, penetrant look. Then she empties the glass, takes out a clean one and pushes it towards Jehan. “Would you?” she asks.

“Sorry,” they say, shaking their head. “I can’t.” They’re not quite lying, but what they should have said was ‘I shouldn’t’. Jehan is very glad it’s Sunday. If it hadn’t been they might be tempted to try.

“Alright…” Maggie says, grabbing the glass. “So, clockwise then.”

“Clockwise,” Jehan agrees.

She begins afresh and while she is working, Montparnasse comes up behind Jehan and drapes his arms across their shoulders.

“What’s taking so long, petit lutin?” he murmurs in their ear.

“Your date has issued me a challenge,” Maggie says, not looking up from the liquid spinning in the glass.

Montparnasse hums in surprise, but he keeps quiet, hugging Jehan from behind and watching Maggie work. Jehan wonders if he can feel the difference in her magic too, he’s quite sensitive to magical sensations for someone who doesn’t possess sorcery himself.

Under Maggie’s hands the water seems to grow thicker for a moment, she puts the glass down and straightens up, looking at it with a slightly glazed look. She hums and looks up at Jehan. “You realize I’m making a big exception here, right?” she says. “I usually do  _not_  serve things I haven’t tested and I don’t drink while I’m working so I  _can’t_  test it.” She gives Jehan another appraising look. “But I’ve got a feeling you’d know if I messed up.” She pushes the glass towards them.

Jehan lowers their head just a little and inhales. The magic buzzes at the back of their mind. “It’s perfect,” they beam. They look over their shoulder to grin at Montparnasse, who looks extremely curious. “Can you divide it across two glasses?” Jehan asks.

Maggie glances up at Montparnasse. “I take it you trust them?” she smirks.

“More than I trust myself,” he grins.

Maggie’s mouth twitches and she divides the oddly sparkling water among two shot glasses.

“Thank you!” Jehan says delightedly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Considering I probably got a new recipe out of this, it’s on the house,” she says, waving her hand.

Jehan smiles vaguely at her. Human magic does not work the same as faerie magic does, but still… “You mean it’s free?” they say.

Maggie gives them an odd look. “Yes,” she says. “It’s free.”

“Thank you!” Jehan repeats brightly and they grab the glasses ,while Montparnasse reluctantly unwraps his arms from around them.

“What did you ask for?” he asks, while Jehan gestures with their head towards a quiet corner to make him follow them.

Instead of answering they hold out one of the glasses to him and say: “This is what it feels like to be with you.”

Montparnasse gives them a bemused smile and they smile back.

“It’s not what I feel for you,” they explain tenderly. “It’s not what you make me feel. But it’s what it feels like to be with you. Just for a moment, when I’m not thinking.”

They raise the glass to their lips and Montparnasse follows suit. There’s a single beat of hesitation and then they both knock back the contents in one go.

Jehan’s eyes flutter shut as a flood of memories come rushing in to form one single glorious feeling. It’s running into the sunshine with their parents calling behind them, it’s leaping barefoot in the moonlight, it’s throwing open the doors to their very own café, it’s climbing the roofs of Paris with Feuilly, it’s singing at the top of their lungs, it’s pulling Montparnasse into a heedless dance, it’s declaring out loud that they’re Fae, it’s giving Montparnasse their real name, it’s looking into his eyes with nothing to hide.

With a sigh Jehan’s eyes fly open and they do just that, looking straight into Montparnasse’s eyes and seeing every feeling they just felt mirrored there. Before they can speak his lips collide with theirs and they’re swept up in a kiss that latches onto the magic like it’s magic itself. When they break apart, they’re both breathless and Montparnasse mutters, with a look that is almost painfully soft:

“I love you, Jehan.”

Jehan can feel their smile spread a warmth that wraps around the both of them. “And I love you,” they reply.

Montparnasse touches their face, smiling, before the softness melts into a grin again and he grabs their hands, pulling them back onto the dance floor.

Jehan laughs, singing the praises of love and freedom with every sound they make. They lift their head and  _dance_. There is so much happiness inside them, so much magic and joy around them, that they do not even remember to mind the rhythm of their steps. Jehan’s feet are still safely laced up in their boots, but the more they dance the faster they move. Montparnasse keeps up with them, eyes shining and his hands never leaving their body. The top button of his shirt is undone and Jehan can just see the roses they know bloom all over his chest. For a moment they close their eyes and when they open them again it seems the entire club is dancing around them. The couches are empty, the dance floor is full and the air is full of elated energy.

Jehan isn’t dancing to the music coming from the speakers anymore and neither is Montparnasse.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” Jehan breathes, arms wrapped around him.

“And I yours,” he says with a grin and he pulls them into a kiss that puts even their dancing to shame.

**Author's Note:**

> Persephonah on tumblr made the most perfect aesthetic edit inspired by this story with an absolutely gorgeous song choice, [check it out](https://persephonah.tumblr.com/post/162160094435/and-i-can-feel-the-static-rising-up-and-out-your)!
> 
> This fic was betaed, like almost all of my work, by my sister Badassindistress. And when I say betaed I mean that she is involved in the creation of my stories on _so_ many levels.
> 
> Friend and artist of my heart DéboraCabral made this **gorgeous** [illustration for this fic](http://deboracabral.tumblr.com/post/165232541318/lets-go-look-at-my-tree-a-parting-gift-for) that you absolutely have to see.


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